THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

Prof.  Kajl  Ewing 


LEW1NG 


Bugle-Echoes 

A  Collection  of 

Poems  of  the  Civil  War 

NortHernand  SouiKern 

Edited  by 

Francis  E  Browne 


9 


Dlow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  dying 

— -Tennyson 


CKicago 


A.C.  McClxirg  &  Co, 
1316 


Copyright.  1886 
By  While,  Stokes  &  Allen 

Copyright, 

A.  C.  McClurg  &  Co. 
1916 

Publiihed   Auguit.  1916 


W.  F.  HALL  PRINTING  COMPANY,  CHICAGO 


.  lipfcm 


Andrew  Fletcher  of  Saltoun,  centuries  ago,  said:  "I 
know  a  very  wise  man  that  believed  that  if  a  man 
were  permitted  to  make  all  the  ballads,  he  need  not 
care  to  make  the  laws  of  a  nation."  This  "wise 
man"  accurately  estimated  the  importance  of  folklore. 
If  so  great  an  honor  may  be  conferred  upon  the  maker, 
hardly  less  should  be  given  the  man  who,  with  patient 
research,  persistent  industry,  and  rare  skill,  presents 
the  war  lyrics  of  a  nation  in  such  attractive  and 
complete  style  as  the  late  Francis  Fisher  Browne  has 
done  in  his  compilation  of  Bugle-Echoes.  Mr.  Browne 
was  admirably  fitted  for  this  work  not  alone  because 
of  his  general  literary  ability  but  because  of  his  great 
interest  in  the  Civil  War,  wherein  he  played  his  part. 

As  the  Editor  of  The  Dial,  which  he  founded  and 
conducted  so  many  years  with  a  literary  taste  and  criti 
cal  skill  that  made  it  an  infallible  authority  in  Book- 
land,  the  country  over,  Mr.  Browne  displayed  rare 
critical  acumen,  a  charming  style,  fine  discrimination, 
judgment  that  seldom  erred,  indomitable  industry 
which  only  ceased  with  his  death,  and  a  genial  per 
sonality  behind  a  critical  mask,  which  made  him 
beloved  by  book-makers  and  book-readers  everywhere. 

His  own  preface  shows  the  unusual  care  and  labor 
bestowed  upon  this  volume  of  poems  of  the  Civil  War. 
It  presents  a  history  in  miniature  of  that  long  struggle 
from  both  northern  and  southern  viewpoints.  Reading 
it,  one  only  wishes  that  the  same  hand,  forever  resting 
from  the  loving  service  of  a  lifetime  among  his  beloved 
books,  could  have  done  the  same  work  for  the  poetry 
of  the  War  of  1812  and  of  the  Revolution. 

GEO.  P.  UPTON 
Chicago,  July,  1916 


812S67 


THIS  collection  of  Poetry  of  the  Civil  War,  be 
gun  several  years  ago  for  the  compiler's  personal 
satisfaction,  has  grown  in  extent  and  interest,  until 
its  publication  is  thought  to  be  justified  by  the 
demand  for  books  relating  to  the  war,  and  by  the 
literary  and  historical  value  of  the  material.  Dur 
ing  the  war,  and  soon  after,  various  volumes  ap 
peared,  containing  indiscriminate  collections  of 
Northern  or  Southern  war-songs.  Viewed  at  this 
distance,  most  of  them  seem  sad  stuff.  In  that 
stormy  period,  patriotic  fervor  was  stronger  than 
poetic  impulse,  and  rude  doggerel  was  often  lifted 
into  favor  by  a  buoyant  tune.  War-songs,  whose 
popularity  was  due  to  their  music  rather  than  their 
words,  have,  with  very  few  exceptions,  been  ex 
cluded  from  this  volume.  Its  aim  has  been  to  pre 
sent  a  body  of  the  really  notable  poetry  which  the 
war  evoked  :  a  record  of  the  feelings  and  experi 
ences  of  that  heroic  epoch,  as  they  were  wrought 
into  lyrical  expression.  Time  enough  has  elapsed 
to  enable  the  war-poems  of  either  side  to  be  read 
without  resentment ;  and  hence  no  piece  is  excluded 
for  its  political  sentiments,  if  it  has  sufficient  poetic 
merit.  Some  pieces  containing  strong  passages, 


(Eomptbr'a 


which  have  enjoyed  popular  favor,  are  spoiled  by 
their  coarseness  ;  while  others,  which  were  thought 
"  thrilling"  in  their  time,  now  seem  little  more  than 
wild  cries  of  rage  and  hate. 

The  two  classes  of  poems,  Northern  and  South 
ern,  at  first  intended  to  be  placed  separately  in  the 
volume,  were  finally  brought  together,  for  the  suf 
ficient  reasons  that  their  interest  is  thus  increased, 
and  in  some  cases  it  could  not  be  determined  to 
which  side  a  piece  belonged ;  and,  further,  that  as 
there  is  no  political  division  between  North  and 
South,  there  should  be  no  division  in  their  liter 
ature.  It  is  hoped  that  nothing  in  this  volume  will 
shock  the  political  sensibilities  of  anyone,  least  of 
all  the  soldiers  of  the  war.  The  compiler  is  able 
to  speak  authoritatively  for  only  one  soldier ;  but, 
judging  by  his  own  feelings,  and  by  the  cordial 
approval  and  ready  aid  the  project  has  received 
from  others,  North  and  South,  he  believes  there  is 
little  to  be  feared  in  this  direction.  Far  from  re 
viving  sectional  animosities,  these  echoes  of  a  war 
whose  memory  is  brightened  by  so  many  heroic 
deeds,  in  which  the  national  mettle  was  so  amply 
proved  and  mutual  respect  came  to  succeed  bitter 
ness  and  hate,  should  serve  to  unite  more  firmly 
the  bonds  of  a  common  patriotism. 

It  is  too  much  to  expect  that,  with  the  large  mass 
of  material  to  select  from,  and  the  limited  space  of 
this  volume,  every  reader  will  find  here  the  poem 
which  he  seeks ;  or  to  hope  that  no  doubtful  piece 
has  been  admitted.  The  compiler  will  feel  satis- 


fied  if  it  shall  be  found  that  he  has  made,  on  the 
whole,  a  reasonably  good  use  of  the  space  at  his 
command,  and  given  a  fairly  representative  collec 
tion  of  the  war-poetry  of  both  sections.  The  ar 
rangement  of  pieces  is  in  the  main  chronological 
according  to  subjects  ;  yet  this  rule  is  not  invariable 
— pieces  founded  upon  a  particular  event  or  period 
usually  being  grouped,  thus  affording  an  interesting 
study  of  the  treatment  from  different  standpoints. 
Wherever  possible,  poems  have  been  given  entire  ; 
and  extracts  are  so  indicated  by  asterisks.  The 
side  whence  a  poem  came  may  in  most  instances 
be  inferred  readily  from  its  title,  character,  or 
author's  name ;  and  in  a  few  obscure  cases  the 
information  is  given  in  parentheses  after  the  signa 
tures.  The  Notes,  which  it  is  hoped  will  add  to 
the  interest  of  the  volume,  have  aimed  to  present 
briefly  such  facts  as  may  help  to  a  better  under 
standing  of  the  poems,  simple  dates  being  often 
effective  for  this  purpose. 

The  compiler  wishes  to  make  cordial  acknowl 
edgment  of  his  obligation  to  various  persons  who 
have  aided  him  by  suggestions  or  material  :  espe 
cially  to  Mr.  Rossiter  Johnson  of  New  York  City, 
Captain  Gordon  MacCabe  of  Virginia,  Colonel 
Paul  H.  Hayne  of  Georgia,  and  Mrs.  Sidney  Lanier 
of  Baltimore.  He  is  also  indebted  to  the  courtesy 
of  many  American  authors  and  publishers  for 
permission  to  use  copyrighted  matter — consent  for 
which,  he  is  gratified  to  state,  has  in  no  instance  been 
refused.  Especially  to  Messrs.  Houghton,  Mifflin  & 


Co.  of  Boston  are  his  thanks  due  for  their  liberal 
concession  of  matter  from  their  copyrighted  pub 
lications,  which  include  the  works  of  twelve  or 
fifteen  of  the  leading  American  poets  ;  and  also  to 
Messrs.  Harper  &  Brothers,  Messrs.  D.  Appleton 
&  Co.,  and  Messrs.  Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  of 
New  York  City,  and  the  J.  B.  Lippincott  Co.  of 
Philadelphia,  for  like  favors. 

F  F  B 

CHICAGO,  March,  1886. 


(Sirifcr  In 

Authnrs 


PAGE 

Abraham  Lincoln. ..  .Richard  Henry  Stoddard  282 

Abraham  Lincoln Henry  Howell  Brownell  292 

After  All William  Winter  203 

Alabama,  The Maurice  Bell  224 

ALLEN,  ELIZABETH  AKERS 

Spring  at  the  Capital 95 

ALDRICH,  THOMAS  BAILEY 

By  the  Potomac 179 

Fredericksburg    144 

All  Quiet  Along  the  Potomac.  .Ethel  Lynn  Beers  67 
ALSTON,  JOSEPH  BLYNTH 

"Stack  Arms  !"   276 

American  People,  To  the Bayard  Taylor  40 

Apocalypse Richard  Realf  3 1 

Ashby John  R.  Thompson  88 

"Ashes  of  Glory" A.  J.  Requier  277 

At  Gettysburg Anonymous  192 

At  Port  Royal John  Greenleaf  Whittier  97 

Band  of  the  Pines,  The John  Esten  Cooke  159 

Barbara  Frietchie. . .  .John  Greenleaf  Whittier  124 

Barefooted  Boys,  The Anonymous,  9 1 

BARTLESON,  F.  A. 

New  Year's  Eve 207 

Battle  Autumn  of  1862,  The 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier  136 

Battle-Hymn  of  the  Republic. Julia  Ward  Howe  66 

Battle  in  the  Clouds,  The.. William  D.  Howells  202 

Battle  of  Charleston  Harbor,  The 

Paul  H.  Hayne  161 

Bay  Fight,  The Henry  Howard  Brownell  226 

Beat!  Beat!   Drums!..              ..Walt  Whitman  13 


atth 


PAGE 

BEERS,  ETHEL  LYNN 

All  Quiet  Along  the  Potomac 67 

BELL,  MAURICE 

The  Alabama 224 

Bethel  A.  J.  H.  Duganne  47 

Beyond  the  Potomac Paul  H.  Hayne  122 

Bivouac  in  the  Snow,  The. Margaret  J.  Preston  143 

Bivouac  on  a  Mountain  Side... Walt  Whitman  241 

Black  Regiment,  The George  H.  Boker  170 

Blue  and  the  Gray,  The.. Francis  Miles  Finch  327 
BOKER,  GEORGE  H. 

Dirge  for  a   Soldier 109 

The   Black   Regiment 170 

Bonnie  Blue  Flag,  The 

Annie  Chambers  Ketchum  39 

Boston  Hymn Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  148 

Boy  Brittan Forceythe  Willson  74 

Brave  at  Home,  The.. Thomas  Buchanan  Read  73 

"Brigade  Must  Not  Know,  Sir,  The" 

J.  W.   Palmer  168 
Brother  Jonathan's  Lament  for  Sister  Caroline 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  21 
BROWNE,    FRANCIS    F. 

Vanquished    309 

BROWNELL,  HENRY  HOWARD 

Abraham    Lincoln    292 

The  Bay  Fight 226 

The  River  Fight 81 

BRUNS,  JOHN  DICKSON 

Our  Christmas  Hymn 204 

The  Foe  at  the  Gates 272 

BRYANT,  WILLIAM  CULLEN 

My  Autumn  Walk 251 

Not  Yet   135 

Our  Country's  Call 14 

Burial  of  Latane,  The John  R.  Thompson  114 

BURROUGHS,  ALETHEA  S. 

Savannah    271 


atrfu  Authors 


PAGE 
BUTTERWORTH,    HEZEKIAH 

By   Chickamauga   River 200 

By  Chickamauga  River.  .Hezekiah  Butterworth  200 
BYERS,  SAMUEL  H.  M. 

Sherman's  March  to  the  Sea 267 

By  the  Potomac Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  179 

Captain's  Wife,  The Theodore  Tilton  117 

Carolina   Henry  Timrod  101 

GARY,  PHCEBE 

Ready    157 

Cavalry  Charge,  The Benjamin  F.  Taylor  246 

Cavalry  Charge,  The Francis  A.  Durivage  244 

Cavalry  Song Edmund  Clarence  Stedman  248 

Charge  by  the  Ford,  The. Thomas  Dunn  English  247 

Charleston   Henry  Timrod  160 

Christmas  Night  of  '62.. W.  Gordon  MacCabe  146 

Claribel's  Prayer M.  L.  Parmelee  129 

Clouds  in  the  West A.  J.  Requier  139 

Come  up  from  the  Fields,  Father 

Walt  Whitman  133 

Comrades   Known   in   Marches   Many 

Charles  G.  Halpine  312 

Conquered  Banner,  The Abram  J.  Ryan  278 

COOK,  THEODORE  P. 

Ode  for  Decoration-Day 325 

COOKE,   JOHN   ESTEN 

The  Band  in  the  Pines 159 

Countersign,  The Anonymous  71 

Cry  to  Arms,  A Henry  Timrod  16 

Cumberland,   The 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  80 
CUTLER,  ELBRIDGE  JEFFERSON 

The   Volunteer    113 

Dead  Cannoneer,  The James  R.  Randall  158 

Death  of  Lyon,  The Anonymous  52 

Death  of  Stonewall  Jackson. ..  .Harry  L.  Flash  167 

Dirge,  A Richard  Henry  Stoddard  315 

Dirge  for  a  Soldier George  H.  Boker  109 


attb  Auilj0rH 


PAGE 

Dixie   Albert  Pike  34 

DOWNING,  FANNY 

Prometheus  Vinctus    305 

Driving   Home   the   Cows 

Kate  Putnam  Osgood  213 

DUGANNE,     A.    J.     H. 

Bethel   47 

DURIVAGE,   FRANCIS  A. 

The  Cavalry  Charge 244 

Enlisted  To-Day  Anonymous  45 

Ethiopia  Saluting  the  Colors.. Walt  Whitman  270 
EMERSON,  RALPH  WALDO 

Boston  Hymn  148 

ENGLISH,  THOMAS  DUNN 

The  Charge  by  the  Ford 247 

Fancy  Shot,  The Charles  Dawson  Shanly  70 

FINCH,  FRANCIS  MILES 

The  Blue  and  the  Gray 327 

Flag  of  Truce Amanda  T.  Jones  274 

FLASH,  HARRY  L. 

Death  of  Stonewall  Jackson 167 

Foe  at  the  Gates,  The John  Dickson  Bruns  272 

Fredericksburg Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  144 

GALLAGHER,  W.  D. 

Move  on  the  Columns 54 

Georgia  Volunteer,  A.. Mary  Ashley  Townsend  177 

General  Albert  Sidney  Johnston.  .Mary  Jervey  79 

Gettysburg Edmund  Clarence  Stedman  186 

God  Save  the  Nation  ! Theodore  Tilton  65 

"Gone  Forward" Margaret  J.  Preston  308 

HALPINE,  CHARLES  GRAHAM 

Comrades  Known  in  Marches  Many 312 

Song  of  Sherman's  Army 268 

The  Thousand  and  Thirty-Seven 212 

HARNEY,  WILL  WALLACE 

Running  the  Blockade 219 

HARTE,  BRET 

"How  are  You,  Sanitary  ?" 185 


attft  Airtlyora 


PAGE 

John  Burns  of  Gettysburg 194 

Our  Privilege   112 

Second  Review  of  the  Grand  Army 310 

The  Reveille   29 

HAYNE,  PAUL  HAMILTON 

Beyond    the    Potomac 122 

Heroes  of  the  South 319 

The  Battle  of  Charleston  Harbor 161 

Heart  of  the  War,  The J.  G.  Holland  126 

"He'll  See  It  when  He  Wakes" Frank  Lee  175 

Heroes  of  the  South Paul  H.  Hayne  319 

HICKOX,  CHAUNCEY 

Killed  at  Fredericksburg 144 

HOLLAND,  JOSIAH  GILBERT 

The  Heart  of  the  War 126 

HOLMES,  OLIVER  WENDELL 

Brother     Jonathan's     Lament     for     Sister 

Caroline    21 

Never  or  Now 138 

Voyage  of  the  Good  Ship  Union 103 

HOPE,  JAMES  BARRON 

The  Oath  of  Freedom 28 

Hopes  of  Man,  The Joseph  O'Connor  64 

"How  are  You,  Sanitary?" Bret  Harte  185 

HOWE,  JULIA  WARD 

Battle-Hymn  of  the  Republic 66 

HOWELLS,  WILLIAM  DEAN 

The  Battle  in  the  Clouds 202 

Hymn  for  Memorial-Day Henry  Timrod  321 

Hymn  of  the  Mothers  of  Our  Volunteers.... 

Horatio  N.  Powers  253 

In  Memory Richard  Realf  313 

In  State Forceythe  Willson  59 

In  the  Land  where  we  were  Dreaming 

D.  B.  Lucas  280 
JERVEY,  MARY 

General  Albert   Sidney  Johnston 79 

John  Burns  of  Gettysburg Bret  Harte  194 


attfc  Authors 


PAGE 

JOHNSON,  ROSSITER 

A  Woman  of  the  War 258 

JONES,  AMANDA  T. 

Flag  of  Truce 274 

The  Prophecy  of  the  Dead 26 

Kearney  at  Seven  Pines 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman     107 

Keenan's  Charge George  Parsons  Lathrop     165 

KETCHUM,  ANNIE  CHAMBERS 

The  Bonnie  Blue  Flag 39 

Killed  at  Fredericksburg. . .  .Chauncey  Hickox     144 

Killed   at  the  Ford 

Henry    Wadsworth    Longfellow     116 
LA  COSTE,  MARIA 

Somebody's  Darling 174 

LANIER,  SIDNEY 

The  Tournament    328 

LARCOM,  LUCY 

The  Nineteenth  of  April 36 

Last  Regiment,  The Joaquin  Miller     261 

LATHROP,   GEORGE  PARSONS 

Keenan's  Charge    165 

LEE,  FRANK 

"He'll  See  It  when  He  Wakes" 175 

Lee  to  the  Rear John  R.  Thompson     216 

Lines  from  "Commemoration  Ode" 

James  R.  Lowell     316 

Little  Giffen  of  Tennessee.  .Francis  O.  Ticknor       78 
LONGFELLOW,  HENRY  WADSWORTH 

A   Nameless   Grave 172 

Killed  at  the  Ford 116 

The   Cumberland    80 

LOWELL,  JAMES  RUSSELL 

Lines  from   "Commemoration   Ode" 316 

The  Washers  of  the  Shroud 56 

LUCAS,  DANIEL  B. 

In  the  Land  where  we  were  Dreaming. . . .     280 
LUSHINGTON,  FRANKLIN 

No   More  Words 17 


PAGE 

MACCABE,  W.  GORDON 

Christmas  Night  of  '62 146 

Malvern  Hill Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps  110 

Manassas  . , Catherine  M.   Warfield  51 

Men   of  the   North   and   West 

Richard    Henry    Stoddard  22 
MILLER,   JOAQUIN 

The  Last  Regiment 261 

Missing    Anonymous  173 

Move  on  the  Columns  ! W.  D.  Gallagher  54 

Music  in  Camp John  R.  Thompson  182 

My  Autumn  Walk William  Cullen  Bryant  251 

My  Maryland James  R.   Randall  23 

Nameless    Grave,    A 

Henry  Wadsworth   Longfellow  172 

Never  or  Now Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  138 

New  Year's  Eve F.  A.  Bartleson  207 

Nineteenth  of  April,  The Lucy  Larcom  36 

No    More   Words! Franklin   Lushington  17 

Not  Yet William   Cullen  Bryant  135 

Oath  of  Freedom,  The James  Barren  Hope  28 

Obsequies  of  Stuart John  R.  Thompson  209 

O  Captain  !  my  Captain  ! Walt  Whitman  291 

O'CONNOR,  JOSEPH 

The  Hopes  of  Man 64 

O'CONNOR,  MICHAEL 

Reveille     92 

Ode  for  Decoration-Day Henry  Peterson  322 

Ode  for  Decoration-Day Theodore  P.  Cook  325 

Old  Sergeant,  The Forceythe  Willson  151 

Only  a  Private Margaret  J.  Preston  69 

OSGOOD,  KATE  PUTNAM 

Driving  Home  the  Cows 213 

Our  Christmas  Hymn John  Dickson  Bruns  204 

Our  Country's  Call William  Cullen  Bryant  14 

"Our  Left" Francis  O.  Ticknor  119 

Our   Privilege Bret  Harte  112 


$Inrnut  atth 


PAGE 

PALMER,  J.  W. 

Stonewall    Jackson's   Way 89 

"The  Brigade  Must  Not  Know,  Sir  !" 168 

PARMELEE,  M.  L. 

Claribel's  Prayer  129 

PETERSON,  HENRY 

Ode  for  Decoration-Day 322 

PHELPS,  ELIZABETH  STUART 

Malvern  Hill  110 

"Picciola" Anonymous  131 

PIKE,  ALBERT 

Dixie  34 

PORTER,  INA  MARIE 

"Shot  through  the  Heart" 263 

POWERS,  HORATIO  NELSON 

Hymn  of  the  Mothers  of  our  Volunteers. .  253 

PRESTON,  MARGARET  J. 

"Gone    Forward"    308 

Only   a   Private 69 

The   Bivouac  in  the   Snow 143 

Under  the  Shade  of  the  Trees 169 

PROCTOR,  EDNA  DEAN 

The  Stripes  and  the  Stars 38 

Prometheus  Vinctus Fanny  Downing  305 

Prophecy  of  the  Dead,  The.. Amanda  T.  Jones  26 

RANDALL,  JAMES  R. 

My   Maryland    23 

The  Dead  Cannoneer 158 

READ,  THOMAS  BUCHANAN 

Sheridan's  Ride    242 

The    Brave   at    Home 73 

Reading  the  List Anonymous  197 

Ready   Phoebe   Gary  157 

REALF,   RICHARD 

Apocalypse     31 

In   Memory    313 

REQUIER,  A.  J. 

"Ashes    of   Glory" 277 

Clouds  in  the  West 139 

Reveille,  The Bret  Harte  29 


JI0? ma 


PAGE 

Reveille Michael  O'Connor  92 

River  Fight,  The Henry  Howard  Brownell  81 

Roll-Call N.  G.  Shepherd  198 

Running  the  Blockade. .  .Will  Wallace  Harney  219 
RYAN,  ABRAM  J. 

The  Conquered  Banner 278 

Savannah Alethea  S.  Burroughs  271 

Scott  and  the  Veteran Bayard  Taylor  43 

Second  Review  of  the  Grand  Army. Bret  Harte  310 
SHANLY,  CHARLES  DAWSON 

The  Fancy  Shot 70 

SHEPHERD,  N.  G. 

Roll-Call  198 

Sheridan's  Ride Thomas  Buchanan  Read  242 

Sherman's  March  to  the  Sea 

Samuel  H.  M.  Byers  267 

SHERWOOD,   KATE  BROWNLEE 

Ulric  Dahlgren   208 

"Shot  Through  the  Heart"... Ina  Marie  Porter  263 

Silent  March,  The Anonymous  215 

Somebody's  Darling Maria  La  Coste  174 

Song  of  Sherman's  Army.  .Charles  G.  Halpine  268 

Spring  at  the   Capital ..  Elizabeth   Akers  Allen  95 

Spring  in  War-Time Henry  Timrod  93 

"Stack   Arms!" Joseph  Blynth  Alston  276 

STEDMAN,   EDMUND  CLARENCE 

Cavalry    Song    248 

Gettysburg 186 

Kearney  at  Seven  Pines 107 

Sumter    19 

Wanted— A    Man 120 

STODDARD,   RICHARD   HENRY 

Abraham    Lincoln    282 

A  Dirge   315 

Men  of  the  North  and  West 22 

Twilight   on    Sumter 164 

Stonewall  Jackson's  Way J.  W.  Palmer  89 

Stripes  and  the  Stars,  The. Edna  Dean  Proctor  38 


Jtoema  attb  Authors 


PAGE 

Sumter Edmund  Clarence  Stedman  19 

TAYLOR,  BAYARD 

To  the  American  People 40 

Scott  and  the  Veteran 43 

TAYLOR,  BENJAMIN  F. 

The  Cavalry  Charge 246 

THOMPSON,  JOHN  R. 

Ashby    88 

A  Word   with  the   West 140 

Lee   to   the   Rear 216 

Music  in  Camp 182 

Obsequies   of    Stuart 209 

The  Burial  of  Latane 114 

Thousand  and  Thirty-Seven,  The 

Charles  G.  Halpine  212 

Three  Hundred  Thousand  More. .  .Anonymous  111 

TICKNOR,   FRANCIS   O. 

Little  Giffen  of  Tennessee 78 

"Our   Left"    119 

The  Virginians  of  the  Valley 106 

TILTON,  THEODORE 

God  Save  the  Nation 65 

The  Captain's  Wife 117 

TIMROD,  HENRY 

A  Cry  to  Arms 16 

Carolina    101 

Charleston    160 

Hymn  for  Decoration-Day 321 

Spring    in    War-Time 93 

Tournament,  The Sidney  Lanier  328 

TOWNSEND,  MARY  ASHLEY 

A   Georgia   Volunteer 177 

Twilight  on  Sumter.  .Richard  Henry  Stoddard  164 

Two  Furrows,  The C.  H.  Webb  41 

Ulric  Dahlgren Kate  Brownlee  Sherwood  208 

Under  the  Cloud  and  Through  the  Sea 

A.  T.  Whitney  30 

Under   the   Shade   of  the  Trees 

Margaret  J.   Preston  169 

Vanquished Francis  F.  Browne  309 


{forma 


Virginians  of  the  Valley,  The 

Francis  O.  Ticknor  106 

Voices  of  the  Guns,  The Anonymous  179 

Volunteer,  The Elbridge  Jefferson  Cutler  113 

Voyage  of  the  Good  Ship  Union 

Oliver  W.   Holmes  103 

Wanted — A   Man.. Edmund   Clarence   Stedman  120 
WARFIELD,  CATHERINE  M. 

Manassas    51 

Washers  of  the  Shroud,  The 

James  Russell   Lowell  56 

Watchers,  The John  Greenleaf  Whittier  249 

WEBB,   C.  H. 

The   Two    Furrows 41 

When  Lilacs  Last  in  the  Dooryard  Bloom'd... 

Walt  Whitman  287 

WHITMAN,  WALT 

Beat !  Beat !  Drums  ! 13 

Bivouac  on  a  Mountain  Side 241 

Come   up   from   the   Fields,   Father 133 

Ethiopia   Saluting  the   Colors 270 

O   Captain  !    My    Captain  ! 291 

When  Lilacs  Last  in  the  Dooryard  Bloom'd  287 

WHITNEY,  ADELINE  D.  T. 

"Under  the  Cloud  and  Through  the   Sea"  30 

WHITTIER,  JOHN  GREENLEAF 

At   Port    Royal 97 

Barbara  Frietchie 124 

The  Battle  Autumn  of  1862 136 

The   Watchers    249 

WlLLSON,     FoRCEYTHE 

Boy  Brittan   74 

In   State    59 

The  Old   Sergeant 151 

WINTER,  WILLIAM 

After  All    203 

Woman  of  the  War,  A Rossiter  Johnson  258 

Woman's  War  Mission Anonymous  255 

Word  with  the  West,  A John  R.  Thompson  140 


Across  the  years  full  rounded  to  a  score 

Since  Peace  advancing  with  her  olive  wand 
Restored  the  sunshine  to  our  desolate  land, 

Come  thronging  back  the  memories  of  War : 

Again  the  drums  beat  and  the  cannons  roar, 
And  patriot  fires  by  every  breeze  are  fanned, 
And  pulses  quicken  with  a  purpose  grand 

As  manhood's  forces  swell  to  larger  store. 

Again  the  camp,  the  field,  the  march,  the  strife^ 
The  joy  of  victory,  the  bitter  pain 

Of  wounds  or  sore  defeat ;  the  anguish  rife 
In  tears  that  fall  for  the  unnumbered  slain, 

And  homes  where  darkened  is  the  light  of  life. 
All  these  the  echoing  bugle  brings  again. 

MARCH,  iSSd. 


BEAT  !  BEAT !  DRUMS ! 

BEAT  !  beat !  drums  ! — blow  !  bugles  !  blow! 

Through  the  windows — through  doors — burst  like 
a  ruthless  force, 

Into  the  solemn  church,  and  scatter  the  congrega 
tion, 

Into  the  school  where  the  scholar  is  studying  ; 

Leave  not  the  bridegroom  quiet  —  no  happiness 
must  he  have  now  with  his  bride, 

Nor  the  peaceful  farmer  any  peace,  ploughing  his 
field  or  gathering  his  grain, 

So  fierce  you  whir  and  pound,  you  drums — so 
shrill  you  bugles  blow. 

Beat !  beat !  drums  ! — blow  !  bugles  !  blow  ! 
Over  the  traffic  of  cities — over  the  rumble  of  wheels 

in  the  streets  ; 
Are   beds  prepared  for    sleepers   at   night   in   the 

houses  ?   no  sleepers  must  sleep  in  those  beds, 
No   bargainers'  bargains   by   day — no   brokers   or 

speculators — would  they  continue  ? 
Would  the  talkers  be  talking  ? — would  the   singer 

attempt  to  sing? 
Would  the  lawyer  rise  in  the  court  to  state  his  case 

before  the  judge  ? 
Then    rattle  quicker,  heavier  drums — you  bugles 

wilder  blow. 


14 


Beat !  beat !  drums  ! — blow !  bugles !  blow  ! 

Make  no  parley — stop  for  no  expostulation, 

Mind    not  the    timid — mind    not  the    weeper  or 

prayer, 

Mind  not  the  old  man  beseeching  the  young  man, 
Let  not  the  child's  voice  be  heard,  nor  the  mother's 

entreaties, 
Make  even  the  trestles  to  shake  the  dead  where  they 

lie  awaiting  the  hearses, 
So  strong  you  thump,  O  terrible  drums — so  loud 

you  bugles  blow. 

WALT  WHITMAN. 


OUR  COUNTRY'S  CALL. 

LAY  down  the  axe,  fling  by  the  spade ; 

Leave  in  its  track  the  toiling  plough  ; 
The  rifle  and  the  bayonet-blade 

For  arms  like  yours  were  fitter  now ; 
And  let  the  hands  that  ply  the  pen 

Quit  the  light  task,  and  learn  to  wield 
The  horseman's  crooked  brand,  and  rein 

The  charger  on  the  battle-field. 

Our  country  calls  ;  away  !  away  ! 

To  where  the  blood-stream  blots  the  green  ; 
Strike  to  defend  the  gentlest  sway 

That  Time  in  all  his  course  has  seen. 
See,  from  a  thousand  coverts — see 

Spring  the  armed  foes  that  haunt  her  track ; 
They  rush  to  smite  her  down,  and  we 

Must  beat  the  banded  traitors  back. 

Ho  !  sturdy  as  the  oaks  ye  cleave, 

And  moved  as  soon  to  fear  and  flight, 

Men  of  the  glade  and  forest !  leave 
Your  woodcraft  for  the  field  of  fight. 


is 


The  arms  that  wield  the  axe  must  pour 

An  iron  tempest  on  the  foe  ; 
His  serried  ranks  shall  reel  before 

The  arm  that  lays  the  panther  low. 
And  ye  who  breast  the  mountain  storm 

By  grassy  steep  or  highland  lake, 
Come,  for  the  land  ye  love,  to  form 

A  bulwark  that  no  foe  can  break. 
Stand,  like  your  own  gray  cliffs  that  mock 

The  whirlwind  ;  stand  in  her  defence  : 
The  blast  as  soon  shall  move  the  rock, 

As  rushing  squadrons  bear  ye  thence. 
And  ye  whose  homes  are  by  her  grand 

Swift  rivers,  rising  far  away, 
Come  from  the  depth  of  her  green  land 

As  mighty  in  your  march  as  they  ; 
As  terrible  as  when  the  rains 

Have  swelled  them  over  bank  and  bourne, 
With  sudden  floods  to  drown  the  plains 

And  sweep  along  the  woods  uptorn. 
And  ye  who  throng  beside  the  deep, 

Her  ports  and  hamlets  of  the  strand, 
In  number  like  the  waves  that  leap 

On  his  long-murmuring  marge  of  sand, 
Come,  like  that  deep,  when,  o'er  his  brim, 

He  rises,  all  his  floods  to  pour, 
And  flings  the  proudest  barks  that  swim, 

A  helpless  wreck  against  his  shore. 

Few,  few  were  they  whose  swords  of  old 

Won  the  fair  land  in  which  we  dwell ; 
But  we  are  many,  we  who  hold 

The  grim  resolve  to  guard  it  well. 
Strike  for  that  broad  and  goodly  land, 

Blow  after  blow,  till  men  shall  see 
That  Might  and  Right  move  hand  in  hand, 

And  glorious  must  their  triumph  be. 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT, 


is 


A  CRY  TO  ARMS. 

Ho,  woodsmen  of  the  mountain-side  J 

Ho,  dwellers  in  the  vales  ! 
Ho,  ye  who  by  the  chafing  tide 

Have  roughened  in  the  gales ! 
Leave  barn  and  byre,  leave  kin  and  cot, 

Lay  by  the  bloodless  spade  ; 
Let  desk  and  case  and  counter  rot, 

And  burn  your  books  of  trade  ! 

The  despot  roves  your  fairest  lands  ; 

And  till  he  flies  or  fears, 
Your  fields  must  grow  but  armed  bands, 

Your  sheaves  be  sheaves  of  spears  ! 
Give  up  to  mildew  and  to  rust 

The  useless  tools  of  gain, 
And  feed  your  country's  sacred  dust 

With  floods  of  crimson  rain  ! 

Come  with  the  weapons  at  your  call — 

With  musket,  pike,  or  knife ; 
He  wields  the  deadliest  blade  of  all 

Who  lightest  holds  his  life. 
The  arm  that  drives  its  unbought  blows 

With  all  a  patriot's  scorn, 
Might  brain  a  tyrant  with  a  rose 

Or  stab  him  with  a  thorn. 

Does  any  falter  ?  let  him  turn 

To  some  brave  maiden's  eyes, 
And  catch  the  holy  fires  that  burn 

In  those  sublunar  skies. 
Oh,  could  you  like  your  women  feel, 

And  in  their  spirit  march, 
A  day  might  see  your  lines  of  steel 

Beneath  the  victor's  arch  ! 

What  hope,  O  God  !  would  not  grow  warm 
When  thoughts  like  these  give  cheer  ? 


ir 


The  lily  calmly  braves  the  storm, 
And  shall  the  palm-tree  fear  ? 

No !  rather  let  its  branches  court 
The  rack  that  sweeps  the  plain  ; 

And  from  the  lily's  regal  port 
Learn  how  to  breast  the  strain. 

Ho,  woodsmen  of  the  mountain-side ! 

Ho,  dwellers  in  the  vales  ! 
Ho,  ye  who  by  the  roaring  tide 

Have  roughened  in  the  gales  ! 
Come,  flocking  gayly  to  the  fight, 

From  forest,  hill,  and  lake ; 
We  battle  for  our  country's  right 

And  for  the  lily's  sake  ! 

HENRY  TIMROD. 


NO   MORE   WORDS ! 
[Boston,  April,  1861.] 

No  more  words ; 

Try  it  with  your  swords  ! 

Try  it  with  the  arms  of  your  bravest  and  your  best ! 
You  are  proud  of  your  manhood,  now  put  it  to  the 
test; 

Not  another  word ; 

Try  it  by  the  sword  ! 

No  more  notes  ; 
Try  it  by  the  throats 
Of  the  cannon  that  will  roar  till  the  earth  and  air  be 

shaken ; 

For  they  speak  what  they  mean,  and  they  cannot  be 
mistaken  ; 

No  more  doubt ; 
Come — fight  it  out  J 


IB 


No  child's  play ! 

Waste  not  a  day  ; 

Serve  out  the  deadliest  weapons  that  you  know  ; 
Let  them  pitilessly  hail  on  the  faces  of  the  foe ; 

No  blind  strife ; 

Waste  not  one  life. 

You  that  in  the  front 
Bear  the  battle's  brunt — 
When   the   sun  gleams  at  dawn  on  the  bayonets 

abreast, 

Remember  'tis   for  government   and   country  you 
contest ; 

For  love  of  all  you  guard, 
Stand,  and  strike  hard  ! 

You  at  home  that  stay 
From  danger  far  away, 
Leave  not  a  jot  to  chance,  while  you  rest  in  quiet 

ease ; 

Quick  !  forge  the  bolts  of  death  ;  quick  !  ship  them 
o'er  the  seas  ; 

If  War's  feet  are  lame, 
Yours  will  be  the  blame. 

You,  my  lads,  abroad, 
"  Steady  !"  be  your  word  ; 
You,  at  home,  be  the  anchor  of  your  soldiers  young 

and  brave ; 

Spare  no  cost,  none  is  lost,  that  may  strengthen  or 
may  save ; 

Sloth  were  sin  and  shame  ; 
Now  play  out  the  game  ! 

FRANKLIN  LUSHINGTON. 


ia 


SUMTER. 

[On  the  I2/A  of  April,  1861,  Fort  Sumter,  in  Charleston 
Harbor,  South  Carolina,  garrisoned  by  United  States 
troops,  was  bombarded  by  the  Confederate  forces,  and,  after 
resisting  for  thirty-four  hours,  capitulated.  This  was  the 
first  battle  of  the  war] 

CAME  the  morning  of  that  day 
When  the  God  to  whom  we  pray 
Gave  the  soul  of  Henry  Clay 

To  the  land ; 

How  we  loved  him,  living,  dying ! 
But  his  birthday  banners  flying 
Saw  us  asking  and  replying 

Hand  to  hand. 

For  we  knew  that  far  away, 
Round  the  fort  in  Charleston  Bay, 
Hung  the  dark  impending  fray, 

Soon  to  fall ; 

And  that  Sumter 's  brave  defender 
Had  the  summons  to  surrender 
Seventy  loyal  hearts  and  tender — 

(Those  were  all !) 

And  we  knew  the  April  sun 
Lit  the  length  of  many  a  gun — 
Hosts  of  batteries  to  the  one 

Island  crag ; 

Guns  and  mortars  grimly  frowning, 
Johnson,  Moultrie,  Pinckney,  crowning, 
And  ten  thousand  men  disowning 

The  old  flag. 

Oh,  the  fury  of  the  fight 
Even  then  was  at  its  height ! 
Yet  no  breath,  from  noon  till  night, 
Reached  us  here ; 


We  had  almost  ceased  to  wonder, 
And  the  day  had  faded  under, 
When  the  echo  of  the  thunder 
Filled  each  ear ! 

Then  our  hearts  more  fiercely  beat, 
As  we  crowded  on  the  street, 
Hot  to  gather  and  repeat 

All  the  tale ; 

All  the  doubtful  chances  turning, 
Till  our  souls  with  shame  were  burning, 
As  if  twice  our  bitter  yearning 

Could  avail ! 

Who  had  fired  the  earliest  gun  ? 
Was  the  fort  by  traitors  won  ? 
Was  there  succor?     What  was  done 

Who  could  know  ? 

And  once  more  our  thoughts  would  wander 
To  the  gallant  lone  commander, 
On  his  battered  ramparts  grander 

Than  the  foe. 

Not  too  long  the  brave  shall  wait ; 
On  their  own  heads  be  their  fate, 
Who  against  the  hallowed  State 

Dare  begin ; 

Flag  defied  and  compact  riven  ! 
In  the  record  of  high  Heaven 
How  shall  Southern  men  be  shriven 

For  the  sin ! 

EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN. 


21 


BROTHER  JONATHAN'S   LAMENT   FOR 
SISTER   CAROLINE. 

SHE  has    gone — she  has  left  us   in   passion  and 

pride — 

Our  stormy-browed  sister,  so  long  at  our  side ! 
She  has  torn  her  own  star  from  our  firmament's 

glow, 
And  turned  on  her  brother  the  face  of  a  foe  ! 

O  Caroline,  Caroline,  child  of  the  sun, 

We  can  never  forget  that   our   hearts   have  been 

one, — 

Our  foreheads  both  sprinkled  in  Liberty's  name, 
From  the  fountain  of  blood  with  the  finger  of  flame  ! 

You  were  always  too  ready  to  fire  at  a  touch  ; 

But  we  said,  "  She  is  hasty — she  does  not  mean 
much." 

We  have  scowled,  when  you  uttered  some  turbulent 
threat ; 

But  Friendship  still  whispered, "  Forgive  and  for 
get  !" 

Has  our  love  all  died  out  ?  Have  its  altars  grown 
cold? 

Has  the  curse  come  at  last  which  the  fathers  fore 
told  ? 

Then  Nature  must  teach  us  the  strength  of  the 
chain 

That  her  petulant  children  would  sever  in  vain. 

They  may  fight  till  the  buzzards  are  gorged   with 

their  spoil, 

Till  the  harvest  grows  black  as  it  rots  in  the  soil, 
Till   the  wolves   and  the   catamounts  troop  from 

their  caves, 
And  the  shark  tracks  the  pirate,  the  lord  of  the 

waves : 


22 


In  vain  is  the  strife  !     When  its  fury  is  past, 
Their  fortunes  must  flow  in  one  channel  at  last, 
As  the  torrents  that  rush  from  the  mountains  of 

snow 
Roll   mingled  in  peace  through  the  valleys  below. 

Our  Union  is  river,  lake,  ocean,  and  sky  : 

Man    breaks  not    the  medal,  when  God  cuts  the 

die! 
Though  darkened  with  sulphur,  though  cloven  with 

steel, 
The  blue  arch  will  brighten,  the  waters  will  heal  ! 

O  Caroline,  Caroline,  child  of  the  sun, 
There  are  battles  with  Fate  that  can  never  be  won  ! 
The  star-flowering  banner  must  never  be  furled, 
For  its  blossoms  of  light  are  the  hope  of  the  world  ! 

Go,  then,  our  rash  sister  !  afar  and  aloof, 
Run  wild  in  the  sunshine  away  from  our  roof  ; 
But  when   your  heart  aches   and  your  feet  have 

grown  sore, 

Remember  the  pathway  that  leads  to  our  door  ! 
OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 


MEN  OF  THE  NORTH  AND  WEST. 

MEN  of  the  North  and  West, 

Wake  in  your  might, 
Prepare,  as  the  rebels  have  done, 

For  the  fight ! 

You  cannot  shrink  from  the  test; 
Rise  !  Men  of  the  North  and  West ! 

They  have  torn  down  your  banner  of  stars ; 
They  have  trampled  the  laws  ; 


23 


They  have  stifled  the  freedom  they  hate, 

For  no  cause  ! 

Do  you  love  it  or  slavery  best  ? 
Speak  !  Men  of  the  North  and  West ! 

They  strike  at  the  life  of  the  State  : 

Shall  the  murder  be  done  ? 
They  cry,  "  We  are  two !"    And  you  ? 

"  We  are  one  !" 

You  must  meet  them,  then,  breast  to  breast ; 
On  !  Men  of  the  North  and  West ! 

Not  with  words  ;  they  laugh  them  to  scorn, 

And  tears  they  despise ; 
But  with  swords  in  your  hands,  and  death 

In  your  eyes  ! 

Strike  home  !  leave  to  God  all  the  rest ; 
Strike  !  Men  of  the  North  and  West ! 

RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD. 


MY  MARYLAND. 

£  This  poem  is  probably  the  most  famous,  as  it  is  the  most 
stirring  in  its  martial  tone,  of  all  that  the  war  evoked. 
Its  form  is  doubtless  suggested  by  Mangan's  "  Karamanian 
Exile": 

"  /  see  thee  ever  in  my  dreams, 

Karaman  ! 
Thy  hundred  hills,  thy  thousand  streams, 

Karaman,  O  Karaman! 
As  when  thy  gold-bright  morning  gleams, 
As  when  the  deepening  sunset  seams 
With  lines  of  light  thy  hills  and  streams, 

Karaman  I 
So  now  thou  loomest  on  my  dreams, 

Karaman,   O  Karaman  /" 

But  the  previous  use  of  this  form,  which  is   remarkably 
effective  for  a  battle-lyric,  in  no  wise  detracts  from  the 


24 


merits  of  Mr.  Randal? s  fine  poem.  From  his  editcrial 
desk  in  Augusta,  Georgia,  he  has  sen1  a  corrected  version 
of  "  My  Maryland"  with  these  interesting  particulars  of 
its  history  :  "  In  1860-61  he  who  pens  these  lines  was, 
though  very  young,  a  professor  at  Poydras  College,  upon  the 
Fausse  Riviere  of  Louisiana.  There,  a  stripling,  just  from 
college  in  Maryland,  full  of  poetry  and  romance,  he  dreamed 
dreams,  and  was  only  awakened  by  the  guns  of  Sumter. 
At  an  old  wooden  desk,  in  a  second-story  room  of  Poydras 
College,  one  sleepless  April  night  in  1861,  the  poem  of  '  My 
Maryland' was  written.  .  .  .  Andnow  the  desk  is  ashes,  and 
the  building  too  !  "  The  poem  first  appeared  in  the  New 
Orleans  Delta.} 

THE  despot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore, 

Maryland  ! 
His  torch  is  at  thy  temple  door, 

Maryland  ! 

Avenge  the  patriotic  gore 
That  flecked  the  streets  of  Baltimore, 
And  be  the  battle  queen  of  yore, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 

Hark  to  an  exiled  son's  appeal, 

Maryland  ! 
My  Mother  State,  to  thee  I  kneel, 

Maryland ! 

For  life  or  death,  for  woe  or  weal, 
Thy  peerless  chivalry  reveal, 
And  gird  thy  beauteous  limbs  with  steel, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 

Thou  wilt  not  cower  in  the  dust, 

Maryland  ! 
Thy  beaming  sword  shall  never  rust, 

Maryland ! 

Remember  Carroll's  sacred  trust, 
Remember  Howard's  warlike  thrust, 
And  all  thy  slumberers  with  the  just, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 


25 


Come !  'tis  the  red  dawn  of  the  day, 

Maryland ! 
Come  with  thy  panoplied  array, 

Maryland ! 

With  Ringgold's  spirit  for  the  fray, 
With  Watson's  blood  at  Monterey, 
With  fearless  Lowe  and  dashing  May, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland  ! 

Dear  Mother,  burst  the  tyrant's  chain, 

Maryland  ! 
Virginia  should  not  call  in  vain, 

Maryland  ! 

She  meets  her  sisters  on  the  plain, 
"  Sic  semper  !  "  'tis  the  proud  refrain 
That  baffles  minions  back  amain, 

Maryland ! 
Arise  in  majesty  again, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 

Come !  for  thy  shield  is  bright  and  strong 

Maryland ! 
Come  !  for  thy  dalliance  does  thee  wrong, 

Maryland  ! 

Come  to  thine  own  heroic  throng 
Stalking  with  Liberty  along, 
And  chant  thy  dauntless  slogan-song, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 

I  see  the  blush  upon  thy  cheek, 

Maryland ! 
But  thou  wast  ever  bravely  meek, 

Maryland ! 

But  lo  !  there  surges  forth  a  shriek, 
From  hill  to  hill,  from  creek  to  creek, 
Potomac  calls  to  Chesapeake, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 

Thou  wilt  not  yield  the  Vandal  toll, 
Maryland  1 


20 


Thou  wilt  not  crook  to  his  control, 

Maryland  ! 

Better  the  fire  upon  thee  roll, 
Better  the  shot,  the  blade,  the  bowl, 
Than  crucifixion  of  the  soul, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland  ! 

I  hear  the  distant  thunder-hum, 

Maryland  ! 
The  "  Old  Line's  "  bugle,  fife,  and  drum, 

Maryland  ! 

She  is  not  dead,  nor  deaf,  nor  dumb  ; 
Huzza  !  she  spurns  the  Northern  scum  — 
She  breathes  !  She  burns  !  She'll  come  !  She'll  come  ! 

Maryland,  my  Maryland  ! 

JAMES  R.  RANDALL. 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  THE  DEAD. 

[April,  1861.] 

Is  the  groaning  earth  stabbed  to  its  core  ? 

Are  the  seas  oozing  blood  in  their  bed  ? 
Have  all  troubles  of  ages  before 

Grown  quick  in  those  homes  of  the  dead  ? 
The  red  plagues  of  yore — 

Must  they  to  our  season  be  wed  ? 

We  thought  the  volcano  of  War 

Would  belch  out  its  flames  in  the  East  ; 

We  knew  where  the  winds  were  ajar 
With  the  quarrel  of  soldier  and  priest ; 

We  shuddered — though  far— 
To  think  how  the  vultures  might  feast. 

We  said,  "We  have  Liberty's  smile  : 
Go  to  !  we  are  safe  in  the  West !" 


But  the  plague-spot  was  on  us  the  while, 
And  the  serpent  was  warm  in  our  breast : 

We  can  no  more  revile — 
The  ox  is  for  sacrifice  dressed. 

Do  ye  hear,  O  ye  Dead,  in  your  tombs — 
Ye  Dead,  whose  bold  blows  made  us  free — 

Do  ye  hear  the  reveille  of  drums  ? 
Can  ye  say  what  the  issue  shall  be  ? 
Past  the  midnight  that  comes, 
Is  the  noon  rising  up  from  the  sea  ? 

Who  whispered  ?     Is  life  underneath 

Astir  in  the  dust  of  the  brave  ? 
For  there  steals  to  my  ear  such  a  breath 

As  can  only  steal  out  of  the  grave  : 
"  Ye  must  go  down  to  death  : 

Ye  have  drunk  of  the  blood  of  the  slave." 

We  have  sinned,  we  have  sinned,  O  ye  Dead  ! 

Our  fields  with  the  out-crying  blood 
Of  Abel,  our  brother,  are  fed  : 

Must  we  therefore  be  drowned  in  the  flood  ? 
Waits  no  Ararat's  head  ? 

Is  no  ark  guided  there  by  our  God  ? 

"  Ye  must  go  down  to  death  :  have  ye  heard 
The  tale  of  the  writings  of  yore — 

How  One  in  the  sepulchre  stirred, 

And  cast  off  the  grave-clothes  he  wore  ? 

In  the  flesh  dwelt  the  Word — 
Inheriting  life  evermore. 

"  When  the  foes  of  the  nation  have  pressed 

To  its  lips  the  sponge  reeking  in  gall  ; 
When  the  spear  has  gone  into  its  breast, 
And  the  skies  have  been  rent  by  its  call ; 

It  shall  rise  from  its  rest : 
It  shall  rise  and  shall  rule  over  all." 

AMANDA  T.  JONES. 


THE  OATH  OF  FREEDOM. 

BORN  free,  thus  we  resolve  to  live  : 

By  Heaven,  we  will  be  free  ! 
By  all  the  stars  which  burn  on  high— 
By  the  green  earth — the  mighty  sea — 
By  God's  unshaken  majesty, 
We  will  be  free  or  die  ! 

Then  let  the  drums  all  roll ! 
Let  all  the  trumpets  blow  ! 
Mind,  heart,  and  soul, 
We  spurn  control 
Attempted  by  a  foe ! 

Born  free,  thus  we  resolve  to  live  : 

By  Heaven,  we  will  be  free  ! 
And,  vainly  now  the  Northmen  try 
To  beat  us  down — in  arms  we  stand 
To  strike  for  this  our  native  land  ! 
We  will  be  free  or  die  ! 

Then  let  the  drums  all  roll ! 

Born  free,  we  thus  resolve  to  live : 
By  Heaven,  we  will  be  free  ! 

Our  wives  and  children  look  on  high, 

Pray  God  to  smile  upon  the  right ! 

And  bid  us  in  the  deadly  fight 
As  freemen  live  or  die  ! 

Then  let  the  drums  all  roll  I 

Born  free,  thus  we  resolve  to  live  : 
By  Heaven,  we  will  be  free ! 

And  ere  we  cease  this  battle-cry, 

Be  all  our  blood,  our  kindred's  spilt, 

On  bayonet  or  sabre  hilt ! 
We  will  be  free  or  die  ! 

Then  let  the  drums  all  roll ! 


Born  free,  thus  we  resolve  to  live  : 

By  Heaven,  we  will  be  free  ! 
Defiant  let  the  banners  fly, 
Shake  out  their  glories  to  the  air, 
And,  kneeling,  brothers,  let  us  swear 

We  will  be  free  or  die ! 
Then  let  the  drums  all  roll ! 

Born  free,  thus  we  resolve  to  live : 

By  Heaven,  we  will  be  free  ! 
And  to  this  oath  the  dead  reply — 
Our  valiant  fathers'  sacred  ghosts — 
These  with  us,  and  the  God  of  hosts, 
We  will  be  free  or  die  ! 

Then  let  the  drums  all  roll ! 

JAMES  BARRON  HOPE. 


THE   REVEILLE. 

HARK  !    I  hear  the  tramp  of  thousands, 

And  of  armed  men  the  hum  ; 
Lo  !  a  nation's  hosts  have  gathered 
Round  the  quick  alarming  drum — 
Saying,  "  Come, 
Freemen,  come ! 

Ere  your  heritage  be  wasted,"  said  the  quick  alarm 
ing  drum. 

"  Let  me  of  my  heart  take  counsel : 

War  is  not  of  life  the  sum  ; 
Who  shall  stay  and  reap  the  harvest 
When  the  autumn  days  shall  come  ?" 
But  the  drum 
Echoed,  "  Come  ! 

Death   shall   reap   the   braver   harvest,"   said    the 
solemn-sounding  drum. 


30  tihwlr-talumi 


*  But  when  won  the  coming  battle, 

What  of  profit  springs  therefrom  ? 
What  if  conquest,  subjugation, 
Even  greater  ills  become?" 
But  the  drum 
Answered,  "  Come ! 

You  must  do  the  sum  to  prove  it,"  said  the  Yankee- 
answering  drum. 

"  What  if,  'mid  the  cannon's  thunder, 

Whistling  shot  and  bursting  bomb, 
When  my  brothers  fall  around  me, 
Should  my  heart  grow  cold  and  numb  ?" 
But  the  drum 
Answered,  "  Come ! 

Better  there  in  death  united  than  in  life  a  recreant 
— come !" 

Thus  they  answered — hoping,  fearing, 

Some  in  faith,  and  doubting  some, 
Till  a  trumpet-voice  proclaiming, 
Said,  "  My  chosen  people,  come  !" 
Then  the  drum, 
Lo !  was  dumb  ; 

For  the   great    heart    of    the   nation,   throbbing, 
answered,  "  Lord,  we  come  !" 

BRET  HARTE. 


" UNDER  THE  CLOUD  AND  THROUGH  THE 

SEA." 
So  moved  they  when  false  Pharaoh's  legion  prest, 

Chariots  and  horsemen  following  furiously, — 
Sons  of  old  Israel,  at  their  God's  behest, 

Under  the  cloud  and  through  the  swelling  sea. 

So  passed  they,  fearless,  where  the  parted  wave, 
With  cloven  crest  uprearing  from  the  sand, — 


31 


A  solemn  aisle  before  —  behind,  a  grave,  — 
Rolled  to  the  beckoning  of  Jehovah's  hand. 

And  Jordan  raged  along  his  rocky  bed, 

And  Amorite  spears  flashed  keen  and  fearfully  : 

Still  the  same  pathway  must  their  footsteps  tread, 
Under  the  cloud  and  through  the  threatening  sea. 

God  works  no  otherwise.     No  mighty  birth 
But  comes  by  throes  of  mortal  agony  ; 

No  man-child  among  nations  of  the  earth 
But  findeth  baptism  in  a  stormy  sea. 

Sons  of  the  Saints  who  faced  their  Jordan-flood 
In  fierce  Atlantic's  unretreating  wave,  — 

Who  by  the  Red  Sea  of  their  glorious  blood 

Reached  to  the  Freedom  that  your  blood  shall 
save,  — 

O  countrymen  !  God's  day  is  not  yet  done  ; 

He  leaveth  not  His  people  utterly;  — 
Count  it  a  covenant  that  He  leads  us  on, 

Beneath  the  Cloud  and  through  the  crimson  Sea  ! 
ADELINE  D.  T.  WHITNEY. 

APOCALYPSE. 

[  Written  in  memory  of  Private  Luther  C.  Ladd,  killed 
by  a  mob  which  attacked  his  regiment,  the  Sixth  Massa 
chusetts,  while  passing  through  Baltimore  on  the  way  to 
Washington,  April  19,  1861  :  the  first  life  lost  in  the  war.} 

STRAIGHT  to  his  heart  the  bullet  crushed  ; 
Down  from  his  breast  the  red  blood  gushed, 
And  o'er  his  face  a  glory  rushed. 

A  sudden  spasm  shook  his  frame, 
And  in  his  ears  there  went  and  came 
A  sound  as  of  devouring  flame, 

Which  in  a  moment  ceased,  and  then 
The  great  light  clasped  his  brows  again, 
So  that  they  shone  like  Stephen's  when 


32 


Saul  stood  apart  a  little  space 

And  shook  with  shuddering  awe  to  trace 

God's  splendors  settling  o'er  his  face. 

Thus,  like  a  king,  erect  in  pride, 

Raising  clean  hands  toward  heaven,  he  cried, 

"  All  hail  the  Stars  and  Stripes  !"  and  died — 

Died  grandly.     But  before  he  fell, 
( O  blessedness  ineffable  ! ) 
Vision  apocalyptical 

Was  granted  to  him,  and  his  eyes 
All  radiant  with  glad  surprise 
Looked  forward  through  the  centuries, 

And  saw  the  seeds  which  sages  cast 
In  the  world's  soil  in  cycles  past 
Spring  up  and  blossom  at  the  last. 

Saw  how  the  souls  of  men  had  grown, 
And  where  the  scythes  of  Truth  had  mown 
Clear  space  for  Liberty's  white  throne. 

Saw  how,  by  sorrow  tried  and  proved, 
The  blackening  stains  had  been  removed 
Forever  from  the  land  he  loved. 

Saw  Treason  crushed  and  Freedom  crowned, 
And  clamorous  Faction,  gagged  and  bound, 
Gasping  its  life  out  on  the  ground. 

Saw  how,  across  his  country's  slopes, 
Walked  swarming  troops  of  cheerful  hopes, 
Which  evermore  to  broader  scopes 

Increased,  with  power  that  comprehends 
The  world's  weal  in  its  own,  and  bends 
Self-needs  to  large,  unselfish  ends. 


33 


Saw  how,  throughout  the  vast  extents 
Of  Earth's  most  populous  continents, 
She  dropped  such  rare  heart  affluence 

That  from  beyond  the  utmost  seas, 

The  wondering  peoples  thronged  to  seize 

Her  proffered  pure  benignities. 

Saw  how,  of  all  her  trebled  host 

Of  widening  empires,  none  might  boast 

Whose  love  were  best  or  strength  were  most, 

Because  they  grew  so  equal  there 
Beneath  the  flag  which,  debonaire, 
Waved  joyous  in  the  cleansed  air. 

With  far-off  vision  gazing  clear 
Beyond  this  gloomy  atmosphere 
Which  shuts  us  in  with  doubt  and  fear, 

He — marking  how  her  high  increase 
Ran  greatening  in  perpetual  lease 
Through  balmy  years  of  odorous  peace — 

Greeted,  in  one  transcendent  cry 

Of  intense  passionate  ecstasy, 

The  sight  which  thrilled  him  utterly. 

Saluting  with  most  proud  disdain 
Of  murder  and  of  mortal  pain, 
The  vision  which  shall  be  again  ! 

So,  lifted  with  prophetic  pride, 

Raised  conquering  hands  toward  heaven  and  cried, 

"  All  hail  the  Stars  and  Stripes !"  and  died. 

RICHARD  REALF. 


34 


DIXIE. 

[  The  original  of  this  popular  Southern  song,  of  which 
there  were  many  variations  during  the  ivar,  is  believed  to 
be  a  Northern  melody — an  old  negro  re/rain,  dating  back  to 
the  time  when  slavery  existed  in  New  York  ;  a  certain  Mr. 
Dixy,  or  Dixie,  owning  large  tracts  of  land  on  Manhattan 
Island,  and  many  slaves,  among  whom  the  estate  was  known 
as  "  Dixie's  Land."] 

SOUTHRONS,  hear  your  country  call  you  ! 
Up,  lest  worse  than  death  befall  you  ! 

To  arms  /     To  arms  !     To  arms,  in  Dixie  ! 
Lo  !  all  the  beacon-fires  are  lighted — 
Let  all  hearts  be  now  united  ! 

To  arms  /     To  arms  /     To  arms,  in  Dixie  ! 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie  ! 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  ! 
For  Dixie's  land  we  take  our  stand, 
And  live  or  die  for  Dixie! 
To  arms  !     To  arms  ! 
And  conquer  peace  for  Dixie  ! 

To  arms  !     To  arms  ! 
And  conquer  peace  for  Dixie  f 

Hear  the  Northern  thunders  mutter ! 
Northern  flags  in  South  winds  flutter ! 

To  arms  ! 

Send  them  back  your  fierce  defiance  ! 
Stamp  upon  the  accursed  alliance  ! 

To  arms  ! 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie  ! 

Fear  no  danger  !     Shun  no  labor ! 
Lift  up  rifle,  pike,  and  sabre  ! 

To  arms  ! 

Shoulder  pressing  close  to  shoulder, 
Let  the  odds  make  each  heart  bolder ! 

To  arms  ! 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie  I 


35 


How  the  South's  great  heart  rejoices 
At  your  cannons'  ringing  voices  ! 

To  arms  I 

For  faith  betrayed,  and  pledges  broken, 
Wrongs  inflicted,  insults  spoken, 

To  arms  ! 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie  ! 

Strong  as  lions,  swift  as  eagles, 

Back  to  their  kennels  hunt  these  beagles  I 

To  arms  ! 

Cut  the  unequal  bonds  asunder ! 
Let  them  hence  each  other  plunder ! 

To  arms  ! 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie  I 

Swear  upon  your  country's  altar 
Never  to  submit  or  falter  ! 

To  arms  ! 

Till  the  spoilers  are  defeated, 
Till  the  Lord's  work  is  completed. 

To  arms  ! 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie  t 

Halt  not  till  our  Federation 

Secures  among  earth's  powers  its  station! 

To  arms  / 

Then  at  peace,  and  crowned  with  glory, 
Hear  your  children  tell  the  story  ! 

To  arms  ! 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie  I 

If  the  loved  ones  weep  in  sadness, 
Victory  soon  shall  bring  them  gladness. 

71?  arms  ! 

Exultant  pride  soon  vanish  sorrow ; 
Smiles  chase  tears  away  to-morrow. 

To  arms  !     To  arms  !     To  arms,  in  Dixie  ! 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie  I 
Hurrah  !  hurrah  I 


36 


For  Dixie  s  land  -we  take  our  stand, 
And  live  or  die  for  Dixie  ! 

To  arms  !     To  arms  ! 
And  conquer  peace  for  Dixie  ! 

To  arms  !     To  arms  ! 
And  conquer  peace  for  Dixie  ! 

ALBERT  PIKE. 


THE  NINETEENTH  OF  APRIL. 
{Boston,  1861.] 

THIS  year,  till  late  in  April,  the  snow  fell  thick  and 

light ; 
Thy  truce-flag,  friendly  Nature,  in  clinging  drifts  of 

white 

Hung  over  field  and  city ;  now  everywhere  is  seen, 
In  place  of  that  white  quietness,  a  sudden  glow  of 

green. 

The  verdure  climbs  the  Common,  beneath  the  leaf 
less  trees, 

To  where  the  glorious  Stars  and  Stripes  are  floating 
on  the  breeze. 

There,  suddenly  as  Spring  awoke  from  Winter's 
snow-draped  gloom, 

The  passion-flower  of  Seventy-six  is  bursting  into 
bloom. 

Dear  is  the  time  of  roses,  when  earth  to  joy  is  wed, 
And  garden-plat  and  meadow  wear  one  generous 

flush  of  red  ; 
But  now  in   dearer  beauty,   to  her  ancient  colors 

true, 
Blooms  the  old  town  of  Boston  in  red  and  white  and 

blue. 


Along  the  whole  awakening  North  are  those  bright 

emblems  spread  ; 

A  summer  noon  of  patriotism  is  burning  overhead  ; 
No  party  badges  flaunting  now,  no  word  of  clique 

or  clan ; 
But  "  Up  for  God  and  Union !"  is  the  shout  of  every 

man. 

Oh,  peace  is  dear  to  Northern  hearts ;  our  hard- 
earned  homes  more  dear ; 

But  freedom  is  beyond  the  price  of  any  earthly 
cheer ; 

And  freedom's  flag  is  sacred  :  he  who  would  work 
it  harm, 

Let  him,  although  a  brother,  beware  our  strong 
right  arm ! 

A  brother !  ah,  the  sorrow,   the  anguish  of  that 

word ! 
The  fratricidal  strife  begun,  when  will  its  end  be 

heard  ? 
Not  this  the  boon  that  patriots'  hearts  have  prayed 

and  waited  for ; 
We  loved  them,  and  we  longed  for  peace :  but  they 

would  have  it  war. 

Yes,  war !  on  this  memorial  day,  the  day  of  Lex 
ington, 

A  lightning-thrill  along  the  wires  from  heart  to 
heart  has  run. 

Brave  men  we  gazed  on  yesterday,  to-day  for  us 
•have  bled  : 

Again  is  Massachusetts  blood  the  first  for  freedom 
shed. 

To  war,  and  with  our  brethren,  then,  if  only  this 

can  be ! 
Life  hangs  as  nothing  in  the  scale  against  dear 

Liberty! 


38 


Though   hearts  be  torn  asunder,  for  freedom  we 

will  fight : 
Our  blood  may  seal  the  victory,  but  God  will  shield 

the  right ! 

LUCY  LARCOM. 


THE  STRIPES  AND  THE  STARS. 

O  STAR-SPANGLED  BANNER  !  the  flag  of  our  pride ! 
Though  trampled  by  traitors  and  basely  defied, 
Fling  out  to  the  glad  winds  your  red,   white,  and 

blue, 

For  the  heart  of  the  Northland  is  beating  for  you  ! 
And  her  strong  arm  is  nerving  to  strike  with  a  will, 
Till  the  foe  and  his  boastings  are  humbled  and  still ! 
Here's  welcome  to  wounding  and  combat  and  scars 
And  the  glory  of  death — for  the  Stripes  and  the 

Stars ! 

From  prairie,  O  ploughman  !  speed  boldly  away — 
There's  seed  to  be  sown  in  God's  furrows  to-day ! 
Row  landward,  lone  fisher  !  stout  woodman,  come 

home ! 

Let  smith  leave  his  anvil  and  weaver  his  loom, 
And  hamlet  and  city  ring  loud  with  the  cry  : 
"  For  God  and  our  country  we'll  fight  till  we  die  ! 
Here's  welcome  to  wounding  and  combat  and  scars 
And  the  glory  of  death — for  the  Stripes  and  the 

Stars !" 

Invincible  banner !  the  flag  of  the  free, 
Oh,  where  treads  the  foot  that  would  falter  for  thee  ? 
Or  the  hands  to  be  folded,  till  triumph  is  won 
And  the  eagle  looks  proud,  as  of  old,  to  the  sun  ? 
Give  tears  for  the  parting — a  murmur  of  prayer — 
Then   forward !    the    fame    of    our    standard    to 
share ! 


39 


With  welcome  to  wounding  and  combat  and  scars 
And  the  glory  of   death — for  the  Stripes  and  the 
Stars ! 

O  God  of  our  fathers  !  this  banner  must  shine 
Where  battle  is  hottest,  in  warfare  divine  ! 
The  cannon  has  thundered,  the  bugle  has  blown — 
We  fear  not  the  summons — we  fight  not  alone ! 
O  lead  us,  till  wide  from  the  gulf  to  the  sea 
The  land  shall  be  sacred  to  freedom  and  Thee  ! 
With  love,  for  oppression  ;  with  blessing,  for  scars — 
One  country  —  one  banner  —  the   Stripes  and  the 
Stars ! 

EDNA  DEAN  PROCTOR. 


THE  BONNIE  BLUE  FLAG. 

COME,  brothers  !  rally  for  the  right ! 

The  bravest  of  the  brave 
Sends  forth  her  ringing  battle-cry 

Beside  the  Atlantic  wave  ! 
She  leads  the  way  in  honor's  path  ; 

Come,  brothers,  near  and  far, 
Come  rally  'round  the  Bonnie  Blue  Flag 

That  bears  a  single  star  ! 

We've  borne  the  Yankee  trickery, 

The  Yankee  gibe  and  sneer, 
Till  Yankee  insolence  and  pride 

Know  neither  shame  nor  fear  ; 
But  ready  now  with  shot  and  steel 

Their  brazen  front  to  mar, 
We  hoist  aloft  the  Bonnie  Blue  Flag 

That  bears  a  single  star  ! 

Now  Georgia  marches  to  the  front. 
And  close  beside  her  come 


Her  sisters  by  the  Mexique  Sea, 

With  pealing  trump  and  drum  ; 
Till,  answering  back  from  hill  and  glen 

The  rallying  cry  afar, 
A  Nation  hoists  the  Bonnie  Blue  Flag 

That  bears  a  single  star ! 

By  every  stone  in  Charleston  Bay, 

By  each  beleaguered  town, 
We  swear  to  rest  not,  night  nor  day, 

But  hunt  the  tyrants  down  ! 
Till,  bathed  in  valor's  holy  blood 

The  gazing  world  afar 
Shall  greet  with  shouts  the  Bonnie  Blue  Flag 

That  bears  the  cross  and  star ! 

ANNIE  CHAMBERS  KETCHUM. 


TO  THE  AMERICAN  PEOPLE. 

THAT  late,  in  half-despair,  I  said : 
"The  Nation's  ancient  life  is  dead ; 
Her  arm  is  weak;  her  blood  is  cold  ; 
She  hugs  the  peace  that  gives  her  gold — 
The  shameful  peace,  that  sees  expire 
Each  beacon-light  of  patriot  fire, 
And  makes  her  court  a  traitor's  den," — 
Forgive  me  this,  my  Countrymen ! 

Oh,  in  your  long  forbearance  grand, 
Slow  to  suspect  the  treason  planned, 
Enduring  wrong,  yet  hoping  good 
For  sake  of  olden  brotherhood, 
How  grander,  how  sublimer  far, 
At  the  roused  Eagle's  call  ye  are, 
Leaping  from  slumber  to  the  fight 
For  Freedom  and  for  Chartered  Right ! 


41 


Throughout  the  land  there  goes  a  cry : 
A  sudden  splendor  fills  the  sky ; 
From  every  hill  the  banners  burst, 
Like  buds  by  April  breezes  nurst ; 
In  every  hamlet,  home,  and  mart, 
The  fire-beat  of  a  single  heart 
Keeps  time  to  strains  whose  pulses  mix 
Our  blood  with  that  of  Seventy-Six ! 

Draw  forth  your  million  blades  as  one ! 
Complete  the  battle  then  begun ! 
God  fights  with  ye,  and  overhead 
Floats  the  dear  banner  of  your  dead. 
They,  and  the  glories  of  the  Past, 
The  Future,  dawning  dim  and  vast, 
And  all  the  holiest  hopes  of  man, 
Are  beaming  triumph  in  your  van  ! 

Slow  to  resolve,  be  swift  to  do ! 
Teach  ye  the  False  how  fight  the  True ! 
How  bucklered  Perfidy  shall  feel 
In  her  black  heart  the  Patriot's  steel; 
How  sure  the  bolt  that  Justice  wings ; 
How  weak  the  arm  a  traitor  brings  ; 
How  mighty  they,  who  steadfast  stand 
For  Freedom's  Flag  and  Freedom's  Land  ! 
BAYARD  TAYLOR. 


THE  TWO  FURROWS. 

THE  spring-time  came,  but  not  with  mirth ; 

The  banner  of  our  trust, 
And  with  it  the  best  hopes  of  earth 

Were  trailing  in  the  dust. 

The  farmer  saw  the  shame  from  far, 

And  stopped  his  plough  afield  ; 
"  Not  the  blade  of  peace,  but  the  brand  of  war. 

This  arm  of  mine  must  wield. 


42 


"  When  traitor  hands  that  flag  would  stain, 

Their  homes  let  women  keep  ; 
Until  its  stars  burn  bright  again, 

Let  others  sow  and  reap." 

The  farmer  sighed.     "  A  life-time  long 

The  plough  has  been  my  trust ; 
In  truth,  it  were  an  arrant  wrong 

To  leave  it  now  to  rust." 

With  ready  strength  the  farmer  tore 

The  iron  from  the  wood  ; 
And  to  the  village  smith  he  bore 

That  ploughshare,  stout  and  good. 

The  blacksmith's  arms  were  bare  and  brown, 

And  loud  the  bellows  roared ; 
The  farmer  flung  his  ploughshare  down  : 

"  Now  forge  me  out  a  sword  !" 

And  then  a  merry,  merry  chime 

The  sounding  anvil  rung ; 
Good  sooth,  it  was  a  nobler  rhyme 

Than  ever  poet  sung. 

The  blacksmith  wrought  with  skill  that  day ; 

The  blade  was  keen  and  bright ; 
And  now  where  thickest  is  the  fray 

The  farmer  leads  the  fight. 

Not  as  of  old  that  blade  he  sways 

To  break  the  meadow's  sleep  ; 
But  through  the  rebel  ranks  he  lays 

A  furrow  broad  and  deep. 

The  farmer's  face  is  burned  and  brown, 

But  light  is  on  his  brow ; 
Right  well  he  wots  what  blessings  crown 

The  furrow  of  the  Plough. 


43 


"  But  better  is  to-day's  success  "  — 
Thus  ran  the  farmer's  word  — 

"  For  nations  yet  unborn  shall  bless 
This  furrow  of  the  Sword." 

C.  H.  WEBB. 


SCOTT  AND  THE  VETERAN. 

[May,  1861.] 

AN  old  and  crippled  veteran  to  the  War  Depart 
ment  came ; 

He  sought  the  Chief  who  led  him  on  many  a  field 
of  Tame — 

The  Chief  who  shouted  "  Forward !  "  where'er  his 
banner  rose, 

And  bore  its  stars  in  triumph  behind  the  flying  foes. 

"  Have  you  forgotten,  General,"  the  battered  soldier 

cried, 
"  The  days  of  Eighteen  Hundred  Twelve,  when  I 

was  at  your  side  ? 
Have  you  forgotten  Johnson,  that  fought  at  Lundy's 

Lane  ? 
'Tis  true  I'm  old  and  pensioned,  but    I  want  to 

fight  again." 

"  Have  I  forgotten  ?"  said  the  Chief ;  "  my  brave  old 

soldier,  no  ! 
And  here's  the  hand  I  gave  you  then,  and  let  it  tell 

you  so : 
But  you  have  done  your  share,  my  friend  ;   you're 

crippled,  old,  and  gray, 
And  we  have  need  of  younger  arms  and  fresher 

blood  to-day." 


44 


"  But,  General,"  cried  the  veteran,  a  flush  upon  his 

brow, 
"  The  very  men  who  fought  with  us,  they  say,  are 

traitors  now ; 
They've  torn  the  flag  of  Lundy's  Lane — our  old  red, 

while,  and  blue  ; 
And  while  a  drop  of  blood  is  left,  I'll  show  that  drop 

is  true. 

"  I'm  not  so  weak  but  I  can  strike,  and  I've  a  good 

old  gun 
To  get  the  range  of  traitors'  hearts,  and  pick  them, 

one  by  one. 
Your  Mini6  rifles,  and  such  arms,  it  a'n't  worth 

while  to  try ; 
I  couldn't  get  the  hang  o'  them,  but  I'll  keep  my 

powder  dry !" 

"  God  bless  you,  comrade  !"  said  the  Chief ;  "  God 

bless  your  loyal  heart ! 
But  younger  men  are  in  the  field,  and  claim  to  have 

their  part ; 
They'll  plant  our  sacred  banner  in  each  rebellious 

town, 
And  woe,  henceforth,  to  any  hand  that  dares  to  pull 

it  down !" 

"  But,  General" — still  persisting,  the  weeping  veter 
an  cried, 

"  I'm  young  enough  to  follow,  so  long  as  you're  my 
guide ; 

And  some,  you  know,  must  bite  the  dust,  and  that, 
at  least,  can  I, — 

So  give  the  young  ones  place  to  fight,  but  me  a 
place  to  die  ! 

"  If  they  should  fire  on  Pickens,  let  the  colonel  in 

command 
Put  me  upon  the  rampart,  with  the  flag-staff  in  my 

hand : 


45 


No  odds  how  hot  the  cannon-smoke,  or  how  the 

shells  may  fly ; 
I'll  hold  the  Stars  and  Stripes  aloft,  and  hold  them 

till  I  die  ! 

"  I'm  ready,  General,  so  you  let  a  post  to  me  be 

given, 
Where  Washington  can  see  me,  as  he  looks  from 

highest  heaven, 
And  say  to  Putnam  at  his  side,  or,  may  be,  General 

Wayne  : 
'  There  stands  old  Billy  Johnson,  that   fought  at 

Lundy's  Lane  ! ' 

"  And  when  the  fight  is  hottest,  before  the  traitors 

fly. 

When  shell  and  ball  are  screeching  and  bursting  in 

the  sky, 

If  any  shot  should  hit  me,  and  lay  me  on  my  face, 
My  soul  would   go   to  Washington's  and   not  to 

Arnold's  place !" 

BAYARD  TAYLOR. 


ENLISTED  TO-DAY. 

I  KNOW  the  sun  shines,  and  the  lilacs  are  blowing, 
And  summer  sends  kisses  by  beautiful  May ; 

Oh  !  to  see  all  the  treasures  the  spring  is  bestowing, 
And  think — my  boy  Willie  enlisted  to-day. 

It  seems  but  a  day  since  at  twilight,  low  humming, 
I  rocked  him  to  sleep  with  his  cheek  upon  mine, 

While   Robby,  the  four-year-old,  watched  for  the 

coming 
Of  father,  adown  the  street's  indistinct  line. 


48 


It  is  many  a  year  since  my  Harry  departed, 
To  come  back  no  more  in  the  twilight  or  dawn  ; 

And  Robby  grew  weary  of  watching,  and  started 
Alone  on  the  journey  his  father  had  gone. 

It  is  many  a  year  —  and  this  afternoon,  sitting 
At  Robby's  old  window,  I  heard  the  band  play, 

And  suddenly  ceased  dreaming  over  my  knitting, 
To  recollect  Willie  is  twenty  to-day. 

And  that,  standing  beside  him  this  soft  May-day 

morning, 
The  sun   making  gold   of    his  wreathed   cigar 

smoke, 

I  saw  in  his  sweet  eyes  and  lips  a  faint  warning, 
And  choked  down  the  tears  when   he   eagerly 
spoke  : 

"  Dear  mother,  you  know  how  these  Northmen  are 

crowing, 
They  would  trample  the  rights  of  the  South  in 

the  dust  ; 

The  boys  are  all  fire  ;  and  they  wish  I  were  going  —  " 
He  stopped,   but  his  eyes  said,   "  Oh,   say  if   I 
must  !" 

I  smiled  on  the  boy,  though  my  heart  it  seemed 

breaking, 

My  eyes  filled  with  tears,  so  I  turned  them  away, 
And   answered   him,    "  Willie,   'tis  well   you    are 

waking  — 
Go,  act  as  your  father  would  bid  you,  to-day  !" 

I  sit  in  the  window,  and  see  the  flags  flying, 
And  drearily  list  to  the  roll  of  the  drum, 

And  smother  the  pain  in  my  heart  that  is  lying, 
And  bid  all  the  fears  in  my  bosom  be  dumb. 

I  shall  sit  in  the  window  when  summer  is  lying 
Out  over  the  fields,  and  the  honey-bee's  hum 


47 


Lulls  the  rose  at  the  porch  from  her  tremulous  sigh 

ing. 
And  watch  for  the  face  of  my  darling  to  come. 

And  if  he  should  fall  —  his  young  life  he  has  given 
For  freedom's  sweet  sake  ;  and  forme,  I  will  pray 

Once  more  with  my  Harry  and  Robby  in  heaven 
To  meet  the  dear  boy  that  enlisted  to-day. 

ANONYMOUS. 


BETHEL. 

[It  was  in  the  ill-fated  attack  of  the  Union  forces  on  Big 
Bethel,  near  Newport  News,  Virginia,  June  10,  1861,  that 
the  lamented  Major  Theodore  Winthrop  lost  his  life.} 

WE    mustered     at     midnight,     in    darkness    we 

formed, 
And  the    whisper  went  round  of    a  fort    to  be 

stormed  ; 
But  no  drum-beat  had  called   us,  no  trumpet  we 

heard, 
And  no  voice  of  command,  but  our  colonel's  low 

word — 

"  Column  /  Far-ward!" 

And  out,  through   the  mist  and  the  murk  of  the 

morn, 
From  the  beaches  of  Hampton   our  barges  were 

borne ; 
And  we  heard  not  a  sound,  save  the  sweep  of  the 

oar, 
Till  the  word  of  our  colonel   came  up   from  the 

shore — 

"  Column!  Forward!" 

With  hearts  bounding  bravely,  and  eyes  all  alight, 
As  ye  dance  to  soft  music,  so  trod  we  that  night ; 


40 


Through  the  aisles  of  the  greenwood,  with   vines 

overarched, 
Tossing  dew-drops,  like  gems,  from  our  feet,  as  we 

marched — 

"  Column  !  Forward  /" 

As  ye  dance  with  the  damsels,  to  viol  and  flute. 
So  we  skipped  from  the  shadows,  and  mocked  their 

pursuit ; 
But  the  soft  zephyrs  chased  us,  with  scents  of  the 

morn, 
As  we  passed   by  the  hay-fields  and  green  waving 

corn — 

"  Column  !  Forward  /" 

For  the  leaves  were  all  laden  with  fragrance  of  June, 
And  the  flowers  and  the  foliage  with  sweets  were  in 

tune; 

And  the  air  was  so  calm,  and  the  forest  so  dumb, 
That  we  heard  our  own  heart-beats,  like  taps  of  a 

drum — 

"  Column  !  Forward!" 

Till  the  lull  of  the  lowlands  was  stirred  by  a  breeze, 
And   the  buskins  of  morn  brushed  the  tops  of  the 

trees, 

And  the  glintings  of  glory  that  slid  from  her  track 
By  the  sheen  of  our  rifles  were  gayly  flung  back — 
"Column I  Forward!" 

And  the  woodlands  grew  purple  with  sunshiny  mist, 

And  the  blue-crested  hill-tops  with   rose-light  were 
kissed, 

And  the  earth  gave  her  prayers  to  the  sun  in  per 
fumes, 

Till  we  marched  as  through  gardens,  and  trampled 
on  blooms — 

"Column!  Forward!" 


43 


Ay !  trampled  on  blossoms,  and  seared  the  sweet 

breath 
Of  the   greenwood   with   low-brooding  vapors   of 

death  ; 
O'er  the  flowers  and  the  corn  we  were  borne  like  a 

blast, 

And  away  to  the  forefront  of  battle  we  passed, — 
"Column!  Forward!" 

For  the  cannon's  hoarse  thunder  roared  out  from 

the  glades, 
And  the  sun   was  like  lightning  on   banners  and 

blades, 
When   the   long  line   of   chanting   Zouaves,  like  a 

flood, 
From  the  green  of  the  woodlands  rolled,  crimson 

as  blood — 

"Column!  Forward!" 

While  the  sound  of  their  song,  like  the  surge  of  the 

seas, 
With  the  "  Star-Spangled  Banner  "  swelled  over  the 

leas ; 
And   the   sword  of  Duryea,  like   a   torch,  led   the 

way, 

Bearing  down  on  the  batteries  of  Bethel  that  day — 
"  Column!  Forward!" 

Through   green-tasselled   cornfields   our    columns 
were  thrown, 

And  like   corn  by  the   red  scythe  of   fire  we  were 
mown ; 

While   the   cannon's    fierce    ploughings    new-fur 
rowed  the  plain, 

That   our   blood   might   be  planted   for   Liberty's 
grain — 

"  Column  I  Forward  /" 


50 


Oh  !  the  fields  of  fair  June  have  no  lack  of  sweet 

flowers, 
But  their  rarest  and  best  breathe   no  fragrance  like 

ours  ; 
And  the  sunshine  of  June,  sprinkling  gold  on  the 

corn, 
Hath   no  harvest   that   ripeneth   like   Bethel's   red 

morn  — 

"  Column  !  Forward!" 

When  our  heroes,  like  bridegrooms,  with  lips  and 

with  breath 
Drank  the  first  kiss  of  Danger  and  clasped  her  in 

death  ; 
And  the  heart  of  brave  Winthrop  grew  mute  with 

his  lyre, 
When   the  plumes  of  his  genius   lay  moulting  in 

fire  — 

"Column!  Forward!" 

Where  he  fell  shall  be  sunshine  as  bright  as  his 

name, 
And  the  grass  where  he  slept  shall  be  green  as  his 

fame  ; 

For  the  gold  of  the  pen  and  the  steel  of  the  sword 
Write   his   deeds  —  in   his   blood  —  on   the  land   he 

adored  — 

"Column!  Forward!" 

And  the  soul  of  our  comrade   shall   sweeten  the 

air, 
And  the  flowers  and  the  grass-blades  his  memory 

upbear  ; 

While  the  breath  of  his  genius,  like  music  in  leaves, 
With  the   corn-tassels  whispers,  and  sings   in  the 

sheaves  — 

"  Column  !  Forward!" 

A.  J.  H.  DUGANNE. 


MANASSAS. 
[First  Battle  of  Bull  Run,  July  21,  1861.] 

THEY  have  met  at  last — as  storm-clouds 

Meet  in  heaven ; 
And  the  Northmen  back  and  bleeding 

Have  been  driven : 

And  their  thunders  have  been  stilled, 
And  their  leaders  crushed  or  killed, 
And  their  ranks,  with  terror  thrilled, 

Rent  and  riven ! 

Like  the  leaves  of  Vallambrosa 

They  are  lying ; 
In  the  moonlight,  in  the  midnight, 

Dead  and  dying : 
Like  those  leaves  before  the  gale, 
Swept  their  legions,  wild  and  pale  ; 
While  the  host  that  made  them  quail 

Stood,  defying. 

When  aloft  in  morning  sunlight 

Flags  were  flaunted, 
And  "  swift  vengeance  on  the  Rebel  " 

Proudly  vaunted : 
Little  did  they  think  that  night 
Should  close  upon  their  shameful  flight, 
And  rebels,  victors  in  the  fight, 

Stand  undaunted. 

But  peace  to  those  who  perished 

In  our  passes ! 
Light  be  the  earth  above  them  ; 

Green  the  grasses ! 
Long  shall  Northmen  rue  the  day 
When  they  met  our  stern  array, 
And  shrunk  from  battle's  wild  affray 

At  Manassas  ! 

CATHERINE  M.  WARFIELD. 


52 


THE  DEATH  OF  LYON. 

[Genera/  Nathaniel  Lyon   was  killed  in   the  battle  of 
Wilson's  Creek,  Missouri,  while  in  command  of  the  Union 
forces,  August  10,  1861.     His  last  words  were :  "  Come  on, 
my  brave  boys  !    I  will  lead  you  /"] 

SlNG,  bird,  on  green  Missouri's  plain, 

The  saddest  song  of  sorrow  ; 
Drop  tears,  O  clouds,  in  gentlest  rain 

Ye  from  the  winds  can  borrow ; 
Breathe  out,  ye  winds,  your  softest  sigh, 

Weep,  flowers,  in  dewy  splendor, 
For  him  who  knew  well  how  to  die, 

But  never  to  surrender. 

Up  rose  serene  the  August  sun 

Upon  that  day  of  glory  ; 
Up  curled  from  musket  and  from  gun 

The  war-cloud,  gray  and  hoary ; 
It  gathered  like  a  funeral  pall, 

Now  broken,  and  now  blended, 
Where  rang  the  bugle's  angry  call, 

And  rank  with  rank  contended. 

Four  thousand  men,  as  brave  and  true 

As  e'er  went  forth  in  daring, 
Upon  the  foe  that  morning  threw 

The  strength  of  their  despairing-. 
They  feared  not  death — men  bless  the  field 

That  patriot  soldiers  die  on ; 
Fair  Freedom's  cause  was  sword  and  shield, 

And  at  their  head  was  Lyon. 

Their  leader's  troubled  soul  looked  forth 
From  eyes  of  troubled  brightness  ; 

Sad  soul  !  the  burden  of  the  North 
Had  pressed  out  all  its  lightness. 

He  gazed  upon  the  unequal  fight, 
His  ranks  all  rent  and  gory, 


53 


And  felt  the  shadows  close  like  night 
Round  his  career  of  glory. 

"General,  come  lead  us  !"  loud  the  cry 

From  a  brave  band  was  ringing  — 
"  Lead  us,  and  we  will  stop,  or  die, 

That  battery's  awful  singing!" 
He  spurred  to  where  his  heroes  stood  — 

Twice  wounded,  no  one  knowing  — 
The  fire  of  battle  in  his  blood 

And  on  his  forehead  glowing. 

Oh  !  cursed  for  aye  that  traitor's  hand, 

And  cursed  that  aim  so  deadly, 
Which  smote  the  bravest  of  the  land, 

And  dyed  his  bosom  redly  ! 
Serene  he  lay,  while  past  him  pressed 

The  battle's  furious  billow, 
As  calmly  as  a  babe  may  rest 

Upon  its  mother's  pillow. 

So  Lyon  died  ;  and  well  may  flowers 

His  place  of  burial  cover, 
For  never  had  this  land  of  ours 

A  more  devoted  lover. 
Living,  his  country  was  his  bride  ; 

His  life  he  gave  her,  dying  ; 
Life,  fortune,  love,  he  nought  denied 

To  her,  and  to  her  sighing. 

Rest,  patriot,  in  thy  hillside  grave, 

Beside  her  form  who  bore  thee  ! 
Long  may  the  land  thou  diedst  to  save 

Her  bannered  stars  wave  o'er  thee  ! 
Upon  her  history's  brightest  page, 

And  on  fame's  glowing  portal, 
She'll  write  thy  grand,  heroic  age, 

And  grave  thy  name  immortal. 

ANONYMOUS. 


54 


MOVE  ON  THE  COLUMNS  ! 

[Autumn,  1861.] 

MOVE  on  the  columns  !     Why  delay  ? 

Our  soldiers  sicken  in  their  camps  ; 

The  summer  heats,  the  autumn  damps, 
Have  sapped  their  vigor  day  by  day  ; 

And  now  the  winter  comes  apace, 

With  death-chills  in  its  cold  embrace, 
More  fatal  than  the  battle-fray. 

Move  on  the  columns  !     Hesitate 

No  longer  what  to  plan  or  do  : 

Our  cause  is  good  —  our  men  are  true  — 
This  fight  is  for  the  flag,  the  State, 

The  Union,  and  the  hopes  of  man  ; 

And  Right  will  end  what  Wrong  began, 
For  God  the  right  will  vindicate. 

Move  on  the  columns  !     If  the  land 

Is  locked  by  winter,  take  the  sea  ; 

No  possible  barrier  can  be 
So  fatal  to  a  rightful  stand, 

As  wavering  purpose  when  at  bay  ; 

This  way,  or  that  —  "At  once  !  to-day  !" 
Were  worth  ten  thousand  men  at  hand. 

Move  on  the  columns  !     With  the  sweep 

Of  eagles  let  them  strike  the  foe. 

The  hurricane  lays  the  forest  low  ; 
Momentum  wings  the  daring  leap 

That  clears  the  chasm  ;  the  lightning  stroke 

Shivers  the  wind-defying  oak  ; 
The  earthquake  rocks  the  eternal  steep. 

Move  on  the  columns  !    Why  have  sprung 
Our  myriad  hosts  from  hill  and  plain  ? 
Leaving  the  sickle  in  the  grain  — 


55 


Closing  the  harvest-hymn  half  sung — 
Half-filled  the  granary  and  the  mow, 
Unturned  the  sod,  untouched  the  plough, 

Scythes  rusting  where  they  last  were  swung. 

Move  on  the  columns  !     They  are  here 

To  found  anew  a  people's  faith  ; 

To  save  from  treason  and  from  death 
A  nation  which  they  all  revere  ; 

And  on  each  manly  brow  is  set 

A  purpose  such  as  never  yet 
Was  thwarted,  when,  as  now,  sincere. 

Move  on  the  columns  !    Earth  contains 
No  guerdon  for  the  good  and  free 
Like  that  which  blessed  our  Liberty ; 

And  while  its  banner  still  remains 
The  symbol  of  united  power, 
Nor  man  nor  fiend  can  tell  the  hour 

In  which  its  star-lit  glory  wanes. 

Move  on  the  columns — strong  and  bright ! 
Strike  down  the  sacrilegious  hands 
That  clutch  and  wield  the  battle-brands 

Which  menace  with  their  Wrong  our  Right! 
Words  now  are  wasted  :  glittering  steel 
Alone  can  make  this  last  appeal : 

They've  willed  it  so — and  we  must  fight. 

Move  on  the  columns !     If  they  go 
By  ways  they  had  not  thought  to  take, 
To  fields  we  had  not  meant  to  make, 
Or  if  they  bring  unthought-of  woe, 

Let  that  which  woke  the  fiery  wrath 
Fall,  scorched  and  blackening,  in  its  path ; 
Not  man,  but  God,  may  stay  the  blow : 
Move  on  the  columns  ! 

W.  D.  GALLAGHER. 


SB 


THE  WASHERS  OF  THE  SHROUD. 

[October,  1861.] 

ALONG  a  river-side,  I  know  not  where, 
I  walked  one  night  in  mystery  of  dream  ; 
A  chill  creeps  curdling  yet  beneath  my  hair, 
To  think  what  chanced  me  by  the  pallid  gleam 
Of  a  moon-wraith  that  waned  through  haunted  air. 

Pale  fireflies  pulsed  within  the  meadow-mist 
Their  halos,  wavering  thistledowns  of  light  ; 
The  loon,  that  seemed  to  mock  some  goblin  tryst, 
Laughed  ;  and  the  echoes,  huddling  in  affright, 
Like  Odin's  hounds,  fled  baying  down  the  night. 

Then  all  was  silent,  till  there  smote  my  ear 

A  movement  in  the  stream  that  checked  my  breath  . 

Was  it  the  slow  plash  of  a  wading  deer  ? 

But  something  said,  "  This  water  is  of  Death  ! 

The  Sisters  wash  a  shroud  —  ill  thing  to  hear  !" 

I,  looking  then,  beheld  the  ancient  Three 
Known  to  the  Greek's  and  to  the  Northman's  creed, 
That  sit  in  shadow  of  the  mystic  tree, 
Still  crooning,  as  they  weave  their  endless  brede, 
One  song  :  "  Time  was,  Time  is,  and  Time  shall 
be." 

No  wrinkled  crones  were  they,  as  I  had  deemed, 
But  fair  as  yesterday,  to-day,  to-morrow, 
To  mourner,  lover,  poet,  ever  seemed  ; 
Something  too  high  for  joy,  too  deep  for  sorrow, 
Thrilled  in  their  tones,  and  from  their  faces  gleamed. 

"  Still  men  and  nations  reap  as  they  have  strawn," 
So  sang  they,  working  at  their  task  the  while  ; 
"  The  fatal  raiment  must  be  cleansed  ere  dawn  ; 
For  Austria  ?  Italy  ?  the  Sea-Queen's  isle  ? 
O'er  what  quenched  grandeur  must  our  shroud  be 
drawn  ? 


5? 


"  Or  is  it  for  a  younger,  fairer  corse, 
That  gathered  States  for  children  round  his  knees, 
That  tamed  the  wave  to  be  his  posting-horse, 
Feller  of  forests,  linker  of  the  seas, 
Bridge-builder,  hammerer,  youngest  son  of  Thor's  ? 

"  What  make  we,  murmur'st  thou  ?  and  what  are 

we  ? 

When  empires  must  be  wound,  we  bring  the  shroud, 
The  time-old  web  of  the  implacable  Three  : 
Is  it  too  coarse  for  him.  the  young  and  proud  ? 
Earth's  mightiest  deigned  to  wear  it — why  not  he  ?" 

"  Is  there  no  hope?"  I  moaned,  "  so  strong,  so  fair  ! 
Our  Fowler  whose   proud  bird  would  brook  ere- 

while 

No  rival's  swoop  in  all  our  western  air  ! 
Gather  the  ravens,  then,  in  funeral  file 
For  him,  life's  morn  yet  golden  in  his  hair  ? 

"  Leave  me  not  hopeless,  ye  unpitying  dames  ! 
I  see,  half  seeing.     Tell  me,  ye  who  scanned 
The  stars,  Earth's  elders,  still  must  noblest  aims 
Be  traced  upon  oblivious  ocean-sand  ? 
Must  Hesper  join  the  wailing  ghosts  of  names  ?" 

"  When  grass-blades  stiffen  with  red  battle-dew, 
Ye  deem  we  choose  the  victor  and  the  slain  : 
Say,  choose  we  them  that  shall  be  leal  and  true 
To  the  heart's  longing,  the  high  faith  of  brain  ? 
Yet  there  the  victory  lies,  if  ye  but  knew. 

"  Three   roots    bear    up    Dominion  :     Knowledge. 

Will— 

These  twain  are  strong,  but  stronger  yet  the  third — 
Obedience — 'tis  the  great  tap-root  that  still, 
Knit  round  the  rock  of  Duty,  is  not  stirred, 
Though  Heaven-loosed  tempests  spend  their  utmost 

skill. 


50 


"  Is  the  doom  sealed  for  Hesper  ?     'Tis  not  we 
Denounce  it,  but  the  Law  before  all  time : 
The  brave  makes  danger  opportunity  ; 
The  waverer,  paltering  with  the  chance  sublime, 
Dwarfs  it  to  peril :  which  shall  Hesper  be  ? 

"  Hath  he  let  vultures  climb  his  eagle's  seat 
To  make  Jove's  bolts  purveyors  of  their  maw  ? 
Hath  he  the  Many's  plaudits  found  more  sweet 
Than  Wisdom  ?  held  Opinion's  wind  for  Law  ? 
Then  let  him  hearken  for  the  doomster's  feet  I 

"  Rough  are  the  steps,  slow-hewn  in  flintiest  rock, 
States  climb  to  power  by  ;  slippery  those  with  gold 
Down  which  they  stumble  to  eternal  mock  : 
No  chafferer's  hand  shall  long  the  sceptre  hold, 
Who,  given  a  Fate  to  shape,  would  sell  the  block. 

"  We  sing  old  Sagas,  songs  of  weal  and  woe, 
Mystic  because  too  cheaply  understood  ; 
Dark  sayings  are  not  ours  ;  men  hear  and  know, 
See  Evil  weak,  see  strength  alone  in  Good, 
Yet  hope  to  stem  God's  fire  with  walls  of  tow. 

"  Time  Was  unlocks  the  riddle  of  Time  Is, 
That  offers  choice  of  glory  or  of  gloom  ; 
The  solver  makes  Time  Shall  Be  surely  his. 
But  hasten,  Sisters  I  for  even  now  the  tomb 
Grates  its  slow  hinge  and  calls  from  the  abyss." 

"  But  not  for  him,"  I  cried,  "not  yet  for  him, 
Whose  large  horizon,  westering,  star  by  star 
Wins  from  the  void  to  where  on  Ocean's  rim 
The  sunset  shuts  the  world  with  golden  bar, 
Not  yet  his  thews  shall  fail,  his  eye  grow  dim  ! 

"  His  shall  be  larger  manhood,  saved  for  those 
That  walk  unblenching  through  the  trial-fires ; 
Not  suffering,  but  faint  heart,  is  worst  of  woes, 
And  he  no  base-born  son  of  craven  sires, 
Whose  eye  need  blench  confronted  with  his  foes. 


sa 


Tears  may  be  ours,  but  proud,  for  those  who  win 
Death's  royal  purple  in  the  foeman's  lines ; 
Peace,  too,  brings  tears  ;  and  'mid  the  battle-din 
The  wiser  ear  some  text  of  God  divines, 
For  the  sheathed  blade  may  rust  with  darker  sin. 

"  God  give  us  peace  ! — not  such  as  lulls  to  sleep, 

But  sword  on  thigh,  and  brow  with  purpose  knit ! 

And  let  our  Ship  of  State  to  harbor  sweep, 

Her  ports  all  up,  her  battle-lanterns  lit, 

And  her  leashed  thunders  gathering  for  their  leap  !" 

So  cried  I  with  clenched  hands  and  passionate  pain, 
Thinking  of  dear  ones  by  Potomac's  side  ; 
Again  the  loon  laughed  mocking,  and  again 
The  echoes  bayed  far  down  the  night  and  died, 
While,  waking,  I  recalled  my  wandering  brain. 
JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


IN  STATE. 
I. 

O  KEEPER  of  the  sacred  Key, 
And  the  Great  Seal  of  Destiny, 
Whose  eye  is  the  blue  canopy, 
Look  down  upon  the  warring  world,  and  tell  us  what 
the  end  will  be. 

"  Lo,  through  the  wintry  atmosphere, 
On  the  white  bosom  of  the  sphere, 
A  cluster  of  five  lakes  appear  ; 
And  all  the  land  looks  like  a  couch,  or  warrior's 
shield,  or  sheeted  bier. 


sn 


"  And  on  that  vast  and  hollow  field, 
With  both  lips  closed  and  both  eyes  sealed, 
A  mighty  figure  is  revealed — 

Stretched  at  full  length,  and  stiff  and  stark,  as  in 
the  hollow  of  a  shield. 

"  The  winds  have  tied  the  drifted  snow 
Around  the  face  and  chin  ;  and  lo, 
The  sceptred  giants  come  and  go, 
And  shake  their   shadowy  crowns  and  say :  '  We 
always  feared  it  would  be  so  ! ' 

"  She  came  of  an  heroic  race  : 
A  giant's  strength,  a  maiden's  grace, 
Like  two  in  one  seem  to  embrace, 
And  match,  and  blend,  and  thorough-blend,  in  her 
colossal  form  and  face. 

"  Where  can  her  dazzling  falchion  be  ? 
One  hand  is  fallen  in  the  sea  ; 
The  Gulf  Stream  drifts  it  far  and  free ; 
And  in  that  hand  her  shining  brand  gleams  from 
the  depths  resplendently. 

"  And  by  the  other,  in  its  rest, 
The  starry  banner  of  the  West 
Is  clasped  forever  to  her  breast ; 
And  of  her  silver  helmet,  lo  !  a  soaring  eagle  is  the 
crest. 

"  And  on  her  brow  a  softened  light, 
As  of  a  star  concealed  from  sight 
By  some  thin  veil  of  fleecy  white, 
Or  of  the  rising  moon  behind  the  rainy  vapors  of  the 
night. 

"  The  sisterhood  that  was  so  sweet, 
The  starry  system  sphered  complete, 
Which  the  mazed  Orient  used  to  greet, 


The  four-and-thirty  fallen  stars  glimmer  and  glitter 
at  her  feet. 

"  And  over  her — and  over  all, 
For  panoply  and  coronal — 
The  mighty  Immemorial, 

And  everlasting  canopy,  and  starry  arch,  and  shield 
of  all. 

II. 

"  Three   cold  bright  moons  have    marched  and 

wheeled, 

And  the  white  cerement  that  revealed 
A  figure  stretched  upon  a  shield, 
Is   turned  to  verdure ;   and  the  land   is   now  one 

mighty  battle-field. 

"  And  lo  !  the  children  which  she  bred, 
And  more  than  all  else  cherished, 
To  make  them  true  in  heart  and  head, 
Stand  face  to  face,  as  mortal  foes,  with  their  swords 
crossed  above  the  dead. 

"  Each  hath  a  mighty  stroke  and  stride  : 
One  true,  the  more  that  he  is  tried  ; 
The  other  dark  and  evil-eyed  ; 
And   by  the  hand   of   one  of   them  his  own  dear 
mother  surely  died  ! 

"  A  stealthy  step,  a  gleam  of  hell, — 
It  is  the  simple  truth  to  tell: 
The  son  stabbed,  and  the  mother  fell ; 
And  so  she  lies,  all  mute  and  pale,  and  pure  and 
irreproachable  ! 

"  And  then  the  battle-trumpet  blew ; 
And  the  true  brother  sprang  and  drew 
His  blade  to  smite  the  traitor  through ; 
And  so  they  clashed  above  the  bier,  and  the  night 
sweated  bloody  dew. 


"  And  all  their  children,  far  and  wide, 
That  are  so  greatly  multiplied, 
Rise  up  in  frenzy  and  divide ; 

And  choosing  each  whom  he  will  serve,  unsheathe 
the  sword  and  take  their  side. 

"  And  in  the  low  sun's  bloodshot  rays, 
Portentous  of  the  coming  days, 
The  two  great  oceans  blush  and  blaze, 
With  the  emergent  continent  between  them,  wrapt 
in  crimson  haze. 

"  Now  whichsoever  stand  or  fall, 
As  God  is  great,  and  man  is  small, 
The  truth  shall  triumph  over  all : 
Forever  and  forevermore,  the  truth  shall  triumph 
over  all ! 

III. 

"  I  see  the  champion  sword-strokes  flash  • 
I  see  them  fall  and  hear  them  clash ; 
I  hear  the  murderous  engines  crash ; 
I  see  a  brother  stoop  to  loose  a  foeman-brother's 
bloody  sash. 

"  I  see  the  torn  and  mangled  corse, 
The  dead  and  dying  heaped  in  scores, 
The  headless  rider  by  his  horse, 
The    wounded    captive    bayoneted    through    and 
through  without  remorse. 

"  I  hear  the  dying  sufferer  cry, 
With  his  crushed  face  turned  to  the  sky ; 
I  see  him  crawl  in  agony 

To  the  foul  pool,  and  bow  his  head  into  the  bloody 
slime,  and  die. 

"  I  see  the  assassin  crouch  and  fire ; 

I  see  his  victim  fall — expire ; 

I  see  the  murderer  creeping  nigher 


ea 


To  strip  the  dead.     He  turns  the  head — the  face  ! 
The  son  beholds  his  sire  ! 

"  I  hear  the  curses  and  the  thanks  ; 
I  see  the  mad  charge  on  the  flanks, 
The  rents,  the  gaps,  the  broken  ranks, 
The  vanquished  squadrons  driven  headlong  down 
the  river's  bridgeless  banks. 

"  I  see  the  death-gripe  on  the  plain, 
The  grappling  monsters  on  the  main, 
The  tens  of  thousands  that  are  slain, 
And  all  the  speechless  suffering  and  agony  of  heart 
and  brain. 

"  I  see  the  dark  and  bloody  spots, 
The  crowded  rooms  and  crowded  cots, 
The  bleaching  bones,  the  battle  blots, — 
And  writ  on  many  a  nameless  grave,  a  legend  of 
forget-me-nots. 

"  I  see  the  gorged  prison-den, 
The  dead-line  and  the  pent-up  pen, 
The  thousands  quartered  in  the  fen, 
The  living  deaths  of  skin  and  bone  that  were  the 
goodly  shapes  of  men. 

"  And  still  the  bloody  dew  must  fall ! 
And  His  great  darkness  with  the  pall 
Of  His  dread  Judgment  cover  all, 
Till  the  dead  nation  rise  transformed  by  truth  to 
triumph  over  all ! 

"  And  last — and  last  I  see — the  deed." 
Thus  saith  the  Keeper  of  the  key, 
And  the  Great  Seal  of  Destiny, 
Whose  eye  is  the  blue  canopy, 
And  leaves  the  pall  of  His  great  darkness  over  all 
the  land  and  sea. 

FORCEYTHE  WlLLSON, 


64 


THE  HOPES  OF   MAN. 

OUR  past  is  bright  and  grand 

In  the  purpling  tints  of  time, 
And  the  present  of  our  land 

Points  to  glories  more  sublime. 
For  our  destiny  is  won, 

And  'tis  ours  to  lead  the  van 
Of  the  nations  marching  on, 
Of  the  moving  hosts  of  Man. 

Yes,  the  Starry  Flag  alone 
Shall  wave  above  the  van 
Of  the  nations  sweeping  on, 
Of  the  moving  hosts  of  Man. 

We  are  sprung  from  noble  sires 

As  were  ever  sung  in  song  ; 
We  are  bold  with  Freedom's  fires, 

We  are  rich,  and  wise,  and  strong. 
On  us  are  freely  showered 
The  gifts  of  every  clime, 
And  we're  the  richest  dowered 
Of  all  the  heirs  of  Time. 

Brothers,  then,  in  Union  strong, 

We  shall  ever  lead  the  van, 
As  the  nations  sweep  along 
To  fiilfil  the  hopes  of  Man. 

We  are  brothers,  and  we  know 

That  our  Union  is  a  tower, 
When  the  fiercest  whirlwinds  blow 
And  the  darkest  tempests  lower. 
We  shall  sweep  the  land  and  sea 

While  we  march  in  Union  great — 
Thirty  millions  of  the  free, 
With  the  steady  stride  of  fate. 

Brothers,  then,  in  Union  strong. 

Let  us  ever  lead  the  van, 
As  the  nations  sweep  along 
To  fulfil  the  hopes  of  Man. 


as 


See  our  prairies,  sky-surrounded  ! 
See  our  hills  with  golden  veins  ! 
See  our  waving  woods  unbounded, 

And  our  cities  on  the  plains  ! 
See  the  oceans  kiss  our  strand — 

Oceans  stretched  from  pole  to  pole  . 
See  our  mighty  lakes  expand, 
And  our  giant  rivers  roll ! 

Such  a  land,  and  such  alone, 
Should  be  leader  of  the  -van 
Of  the  nations  sweeping  on 
To  fulfil  the  hopes  of  Man. 

Yes,  the  spirit  of  our  land, 

The  young  giant  of  the  West, 
With  the  waters  in  his  hand, 

With  the  forests  for  his  crest, 
To  our  hearts'  quick,  proud  pulsations, 

To  our  shouts  that  still  increase, 
Shall  yet  lead  on  the  nations 
To  their  brotherhood  of  peace. 

Yes,  Columbia,  great  and  strong. 

Shall  forever  lead  the  van, 
As  the  nations  sweep  along 
To  fulfil  the  hopes  of  Man. 

JOSEPH  O'CONNOR. 


GOD  SAVE  THE  NATION  ! 

THOU  who  ordainest,  for  the  land's  salvation, 
Famine,  and  fire,  and  sword,  and  lamentation. 
Now  unto  Thee  we  lift  our  supplication — 
God  save  the  Nation  ! 

By  the  great  sign,  foretold,  of  Thy  appearing, 
Coming  in  clouds,  while  mortal  men  stand  fearing, 
Show  us,  amid  this  smoke  of  battle,  clearing, 
Thy  chariot  nearing ! 


66 


By  the  brave  blood  that  floweth  like  a  river, 
Hurl  Thou  a  thunderbolt  from  out  Thy  quiver! 
Break  Thou  the  strong  gates  !    Every  fetter  shiver ! 
Smite  and  deliver ! 

Slay  Thou  our  foes,  or  turn  them  to  derision ! — 
Then,  in  the  blood-red  Valley  of  Decision, 
Make  the  land  green  with  Peace,  as  in  a  vision 
Of  fields  elysian  ! 

THEODORE  TILTON. 


BATTLE-HYMN  OF  THE  REPUBLIC. 
[November,  1861.] 

MINE  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of 

the  Lord  ; 
He  is  trampling  out  the  vintage  where  the  grapes 

of  wrath  are  stored  ; 
He  hath  loosed  the  fateful  lightning  of  His  terrible 

swift  sword : 

His  truth  is  marching  on. 

I  have  seen  Him  in  the  watchfires  of  a  hundred  cir 
cling  camps; 

They  have  buikled  Him  an  altar  in  the   evening 
dews  and  damps  ; 

I  have  read  His  righteous  sentence  by  the  dim  and 
flaring  lamps  : 

His  day  is  marching  on. 

I  have  read  a  fiery  gospel  writ  in  burnished  rows 

of  steel : 
"  As  ye  deal  with  my  contemners,  so  with  you  my 

grace  shall  deal ; 
Let  the  Hero,  born  of  woman,  crush  the  serpent 

with  his  heel, 

Since  God  is  marching  on." 


fir 


He  has  sounded  forth  the  trumpet  that  shall  never 
call  retreat ; 

He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  before  His  judg 
ment-seat  ; 

Oh,  be  swift,  my  soul,  to  answer  Him  ]  be  jubilant, 
my  feet  I 

Our  God  is  marching  on. 

In  the  beauty  of  the  lilies  Christ  was  born  across 

the  sea, 
With  a  glory  in  His  bosom  that  transfigures  you 

and  me ; 

As  He  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  us  die  to  make 
men  free, 

While  God  is  marching  on. 

JULIA  WARD  HOWE. 


ALL  QUIET  ALONG  THE   POTOMAC. 

[  This  piece,  sometimes  printed  with  the  less  character 
istic  title  of  "  The  Picket  Guard"  has  been  claimed  for 
several  authors,  Northern  and  Southern.  It  appeared  in 
the  "Southern  Literary  Messenger"  February,  1863,  as 
"  written  by  Lamar  Fontaine,  private  of  Company  I,  Sec 
ond  Regiment  Virginia  Cavalry,  ivhtle  on  picket,  on  the 
hank  of  the  Potomac,  in  1861."  More  recently,  it  has  been 
claimed  for  another  Southern  soldier,  named  Thad  Oliver. 
But  it  is  now  known  to  have  been  written  by  Mrs.  Ethel 
Lynn  (or  Ethelinda)  Beers,  of  New  York,  and  first  pub 
lished  in  "  Harper's  Weekly"  in  1861.  The  phrase  "All 
quiet  along  the  Potomac'''  was  a  familiar  one  in  the  fall  of 
that  year;  and  in  the  indifferent  announcement  that  was 
one  day  added,  "  A  picket  shot"  the  author  found  the 
inspiration  of  her  poem.] 

"  ALL  quiet  along  the  Potomac,"  they  say, 
"  Except  now  and  then  a  stray  picket 

Is  shot,  as  he  walks  on  his  beat  to  and  fro. 
By  a  rifleman  hid  in  the  thicket ; 


88 


"Tis  nothing  —  a  private  or  two  now  and  then 
Will  not  count  in  the  news  of  the  battle  ; 

Not  an  officer  lost  —  only  one  of  the  men, 
Moaning  out,  all  alone,  his  death-rattle." 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night, 

Where  the  soldiers  lie  peacefully  dreaming  ; 
Their  tents  in  the  rays  of  the  clear  autumn  moon, 

Or  the  light  of  the  watch-fires,  are  gleaming. 
A  tremulous  sigh,  as  the  gentle  night-wind 

Through  the  forest-leaves  softly  is  creeping  ; 
While  stars  up  above,  with  their  glittering  eyes, 

Keep  guard  —  for  the  army  is  sleeping. 

There's   only  the  sound  of  the  lone  sentry's  tread, 

As  he  tramps  from  the  rock  to  the  fountain, 
And  thinks  of  the  two  in  the  low  trundle-bed 

Far  away  in  the  cot  on  the  mountain. 
His  musket  falls  slack  —  his  face,  dark  and  grim, 

Grows  gentle  with  memories  tender, 
As  he  mutters  a  prayer  for  the  children  asleep, 

For  their  mother  —  may  Heaven  defend  her  ! 

The  moon  seems  to  shine  just  as  brightly  as  then, 

That  night,  when  the  love  yet  unspoken 
Leaped  up  to  his  lips  —  when  low-murmured  vows 

Were  pledged  to  be  ever  unbroken. 
Then  drawing  his  sleeve  roughly  over  his  eyes, 

He  dashes  off  tears  that  are  welling, 
And  gathers  his  gun  closer  up  to  its  place, 

As  if  to  keep  down  the  heart-swelling. 

He  passes  the  fountain,  the  blasted  pine-tree  — 

The  footstep  is  lagging  and  weary  ; 
Yet  onward  he  goes,  through  the  broad  belt  of  light, 

Toward  the  shades  of  the  forest  so  dreary. 
Hark  !  was  it  the  night-wind  that  rustled  the  leaves  ? 

Was  it  moonlight  so  suddenly  flashing  ? 
It  looked  like  a  rifle  .  .  .  .  "  Ha  !  Mary,  good-by  !" 

And  the  life-blood  is  ebbing  and  plashing. 


All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night ; 

No  sound  save  the  rush  of  the  river ; 
While  soft  falls  the  dew  on  the  face  of  the  dead — 

The  picket's  off  duty  forever  ! 

ETHEL  LYNN  BEERS. 


ONLY  A  PRIVATE. 

ONLY  a  private — and  who  will  care 

When  I  may  pass  away, 
Or  how,  or  why  I  perish,  or  where 

I  mix  with  the  common  clay  ? 
They  will  fill  my  empty  place  again 

With  another  as  bold  and  brave  ; 
And  they'll  blot  me  out  ere  the  autumn  rain 

Has  freshened  my  nameless  grave. 

Only  a  private — it  matters  not 

That  I  did  my  duty  well, 
That  all  through  a  score  of  battles  I  fought, 

And  then,  like  a  soldier,  fell. 
The  country  I  died  for  never  will  heed 

My  unrequited  claim ; 
And  History  cannot  record  the  deed, 

For  she  never  has  heard  my  name. 

Only  a  private — and  yet  I  know 

When  I  heard  the  rallying-call 
I  was  one  of  the  very  first  to  go, 

And  .  .  .  I'm  one  of  the  many  who  fall : 
But  as  here  I  lie,  it  is  sweet  to  feel 

That  my  honor's  without  a  stain, — 
That  I  only  fought  for  my  country's  weal, 

And  not  for  glory  or  gain. 

Only  a  private — yet  He  who  reads 
Through  the  guises  of  the  heart, 

Looks  not  at  the  splendor  of  the  deeds, 
But  the  way  we  do  our  part ; 


ro 


And  when  He  shall  take  us  by  the  hand, 

And  our  small  service  own, 
There'll  a  glorious  band  of  privates  stand 
As  victors  around  the  throne  ! 

MARGARET  J.  PRESTON  {Southern). 


THE  FANCY  SHOT. 

[This  is  the  title  by  which  this  famous  piece  is  more  gen 
erally  known,  although  "  Civil  War  "  is  perhaps  the  more 
authentic  one.  The  poem  appeared  early  in  the  war,  in  the 
London  "  Once  a  Week"  with  the  caption  "  Civile  Bellum," 
and  dated  "  From  the  Once  United  States."  Its  author 
ship  is  not  clearly  settled,  but  is  commonly  attributed  to 
Charles  Dawson  Shanly,  who  died  in  1876.] 

"  RIFLEMAN,  shoot  me  a  fancy  shot 

Straight  at  the  heart  of  yon  prowling  vidette ; 

Ring  me  a  ball  in  the  glittering  spot 
That  shines  on  his  breast  like  an  amulet !" 

"  Ah,  Captain  !  here  goes  for  a  fine-drawn  bead  ; 
There 's   music    around    when    my    barrel's    in 

tune  !" 
Crack !  went  the  rifle,  the  messenger  sped, 

And  dead  from  his  horse   fell    the  ringing  dra 
goon. 

"  Now,  Rifleman,  steal  through  the    bushes,  and 

snatch 
From  your  victim  some  trinket  to  handsel  first 

blood — 
A  button,  a  loop,  or  that  luminous  patch 

That  gleams  in  the  moon  like  a  diamond  stud." 

"  O  Captain  !  I  staggered,  and  sunk  on  my  track, 
When  I  gazed  on  the  face  of  that  fallen  vidette ; 

For  he  looked  so  like  you  as  he  lay  on  his  back 
That  my  heart  rose  upon  me,  and  masters  me  yet. 


n 


"  But  I  snatched  off  the  trinket  —  this  locket  of  gold  ; 

An  inch  from  the  centre  my  lead  broke  its  way, 
Scarce  grazing  the  picture,  so  fair  to  behold, 

Of  a  beautiful  lady  in  bridal  array." 

"  Ha  !  Rifleman,  fling  me  the  locket  !  —  'tis  she, 
My  brother's  young  bride,  and  the  fallen  dragoon 

Was  her  husband  —   Hush!  soldier,  'twas  Heaven's 

decree  ; 
We  must  bury  him  here,  by  the  light  of  the  moon  ! 

"  But,  hark  !  the  far  bugles  their  warnings  unite  ; 

War  is  a  virtue  —  weakness  a  sin  ; 
There's  lurking  and  loping  around  us  to-night  ; 

Load  again,  Rifleman,  keep  your  hand  in  !" 

CHARLES  DAWSON  SHANLY. 


THE  COUNTERSIGN. 

[  There  has  been  no  little  dispute  as  to  the  authorship  of 
this  poem.  The  Philadelphia  '•'•Press,'11  in  1861,  said  it  was 
' '  written  by  a  private  in  Company  G,  Stuart's  Engineer 
Regiment,  at  Camp  Lesley,  near  Washington"  But  it 
may  now  be  stated  positively  that  it  was  written  by  a  Con 
federate  soldier,  still  living.  The  poem  is  usually  printed 
in  a  very  imperfect  form,  with  the  fourth,  fifth,  and  sixth 
stanzas  omitted.  The  third  line  of  the  fifth  stanza  affords 
internal  evidence  of  Southern  origin.] 

ALAS  !  the  weary  hours  pass  slow. 

The  night  is  very  dark  and  still ; 
And  in  the  marshes  far  below 

I  hear  the  bearded  whippoorwill ; 
I  scarce  can  see  a  yard  ahead, 

My  ears  are  strained  to  catch  each  sound; 
I  hear  the  leaves  about  me  shed, 

And  the  spring's  bubbling  through  the  ground. 


rz 


Along  the  beaten  path  I  pace, 

Where  white  rags  mark  my  sentry's  track; 
In  formless  shrubs  I  seem  to  trace 

The  foeman's  form  with  bending  back, 
I  think  I  see  him  crouching  low  : 

I  stop  and  list — I  stoop  and  peer, 
Until  the  neighboring  hillocks  grow 

To  groups  of  soldiers  far  and  near. 

With  ready  piece  I  wait  and  watch, 

Until  my  eyes,  familiar  grown, 
Detect  each  harmless  earthern  notch. 

And  turn  guerrillas  into  stone  ; 
And  then,  amid  the  lonely  gloom, 

Beneath  the  tall  old  chestnut  trees, 
My  silent  marches  I  resume, 

And  think  of  other  times  than  these. 

Sweet  visions  through  the  silent  night ! 

The  deep  bay-windows  fringed  with  vine, 
The  room  within,  in  softened  light, 

The  tender  milk-white  hand  in  mine  ; 
The  timid  pressure,  and  the  pause 

That  often  overcame  our  speech — 
That  time  when  by  mysterious  laws 

We  each  felt  all  in  all  to  each. 

And  then  that  bitter,  bitter  day, 

When  came  the  final  hour  to  part; 
When,  clad  in  soldier's  honest  gray, 

I  pressed  her  weeping  to  my  heart ; 
Too  proud  of  me  to  bid  me  stay, 

Too  fond  of  me  to  let  me  go, — 
I  had  to  tear  myself  away, 

And  left  her,  stolid  in  my  woe. 

So  rose  the  dream — so  passed  the  night — 
When,  distant  in  the  darksome  glen, 

Approaching  up  the  sombre  height 
I  heard  the  solid  march  of  men  ; 


ra 


Till  over  stubble,  over  sward, 

And  fields  where  lay  the  golden  sheaf, 

I  saw  the  lantern  of  the  guard 
Advancing  with  the  night  relief. 

"  Halt !     Who  goes  there  ?"     My  challenge  cry, 

It  rings  along  the  watchful  line  ; 
"  Relief  !"  I  hear  a  voice  reply  ; 

"  Advance,  and  give  the  countersign  !" 
With  bayonet  at  the  charge  I  wait — 

The  corporal  gives  the  mystic  spell ; 
WTith  arms  aport  I  charge  my  mate, 

Then  onward  pass,  and  all  is  well. 

But  in  the  tent  that  night  awake, 

I  ask,  if  in  the  fray  I  fall, 
Can  I  the  mystic  answer  make 

When  the  angelic  sentries  call  ? 
And  pray  that  Heaven  may  so  ordain, 

Where'er  I  go,  what  fate  be  mine, 
Whether  in  pleasure  or  in  pain, 

I  still  may  have  the  countersign. 

ANONYMOUS  (Southern). 


THE  BRAVE  AT  HOME. 

THE  maid  who  binds  her  warrior's  sash, 

With  smile  that  well  her  pain  dissembles, 
The  while  beneath  her  drooping  lash 

One  starry  tear-drop  hangs  and  trembles, 
Though  Heaven  alone  records  the  tear, 

And  fame  shall  never  know  her  story, 
Her  heart  has  shed  a  drop  as  dear 

As  e'er  bedewed  the  field  of  glory  1 


74 


The  wife  who  girds  her  husband's  sword, 

'Mid  little  ones  who  weep  or  wonder, 
And  bravely  speaks  the  cheering  word, 

What  though  her  heart  be  rent  asunder, 
Doomed  nightly  in  her  dreams  to  hear 

The  bolts  of  death  around  him  rattle, 
Hath  shed  as  sacred  blood  as  e'er 

Was  poured  upon  the  field  of  battle ! 

The  mother  who  conceals  her  grief, 

While  to  her  breast  her  son  she  presses, 
Then  breathes  a  few  brave  words  and  brief, 

Kissing  the  patriot  brow  she  blesses, 
With  no  one  but  her  secret  God 

To  know  the  pain  that  weighs  upon  her, 
Sheds  holy  blood  as  e'er  the  sod 

Received  on  freedom's  field  of  honor ! 

THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ, 


BOY  BRITTAN. 

[Battle  of  Fort  Henry,  Tenn.,  February  6,  1862.] 
I. 

BOY  BRITTAN — only  a  lad — a  fair-haired  boy — six 
teen, 

In  his  uniform, 
Into  the  storm — into  the  roaring  jaws  of  grim  Fort 

Henry — 

Boldly  bears  the  Federal  flotilla— 
Into  the  battle  storm ! 

IT. 

Boy  Brittan  is  master's  mate  aboard  of  the  Essex — 
There  he  stands,  buoyant  and  eager-eyed, 
By  the  brave  captain's  side; 


rs 


Ready   to   do   and   dare.     Aye,  aye,  sir!   always 
ready — 

In  his  country's  uniform. 

Boom  !  Boom  !  and  now  the  flag-boat  sweeps,  and 
now  the  Essex, 

Into  the  battle  storm  ! 

ill. 

Boom  !  Boom  !  till  river  and  fort  and  field  are  over 
clouded 

By  battle's  breath  ;  then  from  the  fort  a  gleam 
And  a  crashing  gun,  and  the  Essex  is  wrapt   and 
shrouded 

In  a  scalding  cloud  of  steam  ! 

IV. 

But  victory !  victory ! 
Unto  God  all  praise  be  ever  rendered, 
Unto  God  all  praise  and  glory  be ! 
See,  boy  Brittan  !  see,  boy,  see ! 
They  strike !      Hurrah !  the  fort  has  just  surren 
dered  ! 

Shout !     Shout !  my  boy,  my  warrior  boy  ! 
And  wave  your  cap  and  clap  your  hands  for  joy ! 

Cheer  answer  cheer  and  bear  the  cheer  about — 
Hurrah  !  Hurrah  !  for  the  fiery  fort  is  ours  ; 
And  "  Victory  !"  "Victory!"  "Victory!" 

Is  the  shout. 
Shout — for  the  fiery  fort,  and  the  field,  and  the  day 

are  ours — 
The  day  is  ours — thanks  to  the  brave  endeavor 

Of  heroes,  boy,  like  thee  ! 
The  day  is  ours — the  day  is  ours  ! 
Glory  and  deathless  love  to  all  who  shared  with 

thee, 

And  bravely  endured  and  dared  with  thee — 
The  day  is  ours — the  day  is  ours — 
Forever ! 


re 


Glory  and  Love  for  one  and  all;  but  —  but — for 

thee — 

Home  !    Home  !   a  happy  "Welcome — welcome 
home  "  for  thee  ! 

And  kisses  of  love  for  thee — 

And  a  mother's  happy,  happy  tears,  and  a  virgin's 
bridal  wreath  of  flowers — 
For  thee ! 

v. 

Victory  !     Victory !   .  .  .  . 
But  suddenly  wrecked  and  wrapt  in  seething  steam, 

the  Essex 

Slowly  drifted  out  of  the  battle's  storm  ; 
Slowly,  slowly  down — laden  with  the  dead  and  the 

dying ; 
And  there,  at   the  captain's  feet,  among  the  dead 

and  the  dying, 

The  shot-marred  form  of  a  beautiful  boy  is  lying — 
There  in  his  uniform  ! 

VI. 

Laurels  and  tears  for  thee,  boy, 
Laurels  and  tears  for  thee  ! 
Laurels  of  light,  moist  with  the  precious  dew 

Of  the  inmost  heart  of  the  nation's  loving  heart, 
And  blest  by  the  balmy  breath  of  the  beautiful  and 

the  true ; 

Moist — moist  with  the  luminous  breath  of  the  sing 
ing  spheres 

And  the  nation's  sta'ry  tears  ! 
And  tremble-touched  by  the  pulse-like  gush   and 

start 

Of  the  universal  music  of  the  heart, 
And  all  deep  sympathy 
Laurels  and  tears  for  thee,  boy, 

Laurels  and  tears  for  thee— 
Laurels  of  light  and  tears  of  love  forevermore — 
For  thee ! 


rr 


VII. 

And  laurels  of  light,  and  tears  of  truth, 

And  the  mantle  of  immortality  ; 
And  the  flowers  of  love  and  immortal  youth, 
And  the  tender  heart-tokens  of  all  true  ruth — 
And  the  everlasting  victory  ! 

And  the  breath  and  bliss  of  Liberty ; 

And  the  loving  kiss  of  Liberty  ; 
And  the  welcoming  light  of  heavenly  eyes, 

And  the  over-calm  of  God's  canopy  ; 
And  the  infinite  love-span  of  the  skies 
That  cover  the  valleys  of  Paradise — 

For  all  of  the  brave  who  rest  with  thee ; 

And  for  one  and  all  who  died  with  thee, 

And  now  sleep  side  by  side  with  thee  ; 
And  for  every  one  who  lives  and  dies, 

On  the  solid  land  or  the  heaving  sea, 
Dear  warrior-boy — like  thee. 

VIII. 

O  the  victory — the  victory 
Belongs  to  thee ! 

God  ever  keeps  the  brightest   crown  for  such  as 
thou — 

He  gives  it  now  to  thee  ! 
O  young  and  brave,  and  early  and  thrice  blest — 

Thrice,  thrice,  thrice  blest ! 
Thy  country  turns  once  more  to  kiss  thy  youthful 

brow, 

And  takes  thee — gently — gently  to  her  breast ; 
And  whispers  lovingly,  "  God  bless  thee — bless  thee 
now — 

My  darling,  thou  shalt  rest ! " 

FORCEYTHE  WlLLSON. 


ra 


LITTLE  GIFFEN  OF  TENNESSEE. 

OUT  of  the  focal  and  foremost  fire, 
Out  of  the  hospital  walls  as  dire, 
Smitten  of  grape-shot  and  gangrene, 
(Eighteenth  battle,  and  he  sixteen  ! ) 
Spectre  such  as  we  seldom  see, 
Little  Giffen  of  Tennessee  ! 

"  Take  him — and  welcome  !"  the  surgeon  said  ; 
"  Much  your  doctor  can  help  the  dead  !" 
And  so  we  took  him  and  brought  him  where 
The  balm  was  sweet  on  the  summer  air  ; 
And  we  laid  him  down  on  a  wholesome  bed — 
Utter  Lazarus,  heel  to  head ! 

Weary  war  with  the  bated  breath, 
Skeleton  boy  against  skeleton  Death. 
Months  of  torture,  how  many  such  ! 
Weary  weeks  of  the  stick  and  crutch  ! 
Still  a  glint  in  the  steel-blue  eye 
Spoke  of  the  spirit  that  would  not  die, 

And  didn't !  nay,  more !  in  death's  despite 
The  crippled  skeleton  learned  to  write  ! 
"  Dear  mother  "  at  first,  of  course :  and  then, 
"  Dear  captain  " — inquiring  about  "  the  men." 
Captain's  answer — "Of  eighty  and  five, 
Giffen  and  I  are  left  alive  !" 

"  Johnston's  pressed  at  the  front,  they  say  !" 

Little  Giffen  was  up  and  away. 

A  tear,  his  first,  as  he  bade  good-by, 

Dimmed  the  glint  of  his  steel-blue  eye  ; 

"  I'll  write,  if  spared"     There  was  news  of  ; 

fight, 
But  none  of  Giffen.     He  did  not  write ! 

I  sometimes  fancy  that  were  I  king 

Of  the  princely  knights  of  the  Golden  Ring, 


With  the  song  of  the  minstrel  in  mine  ear, 
And  the  tender  legend  that  trembles  here, 
I'd  give  the  best,  on  his  bended  knee, 
The  whitest  soul  of  my  chivalry, 
For  little  Giffen  of  Tennessee  ! 

FRANCIS  O.  TICKNOR. 


GENERAL  ALBERT  SIDNEY  JOHNSTON. 

[Fell  in  the  Battle  of  Pittsburgh  Landing,  Ten*.,  March  2, 
1862.] 

IN  thickest  fight  triumphantly  he  fell, 
While  into  victory's  arms  he  led  us  on  ; 

A  death  so  glorious  our  grief  should  quell : 
We  mourn  him,  yet  his  battle-crown  is  won. 

No  slanderous  tongue  can  vex  his  spirit  now, 

No    bitter  taunts    can   stain   his    blood-bought 
fame ; 

Immortal  honor  rests  upon  his  brow, 

And  noble  memories  cluster  round  his  name. 

For  hearts   shall  thrill   and  eyes   grow   dim   with 
tears, 

To  read  the  story  of  his  touching  fate  ; 
How  in  his  death  the  gallant  soldier  wears 

The  crown  that  came  for  earthly  life  too  late. 

Ye  people !  guard  his  memory — sacred  keep 
The  garlands  green  above  his  hero-grave ; 

Yet  weep,  for  praise  can  never  wake  his  sleep, 
To  tell  him  he  is  shrined  among  the  brave  ! 

MARY  JERVEY. 


BO 


THE  CUMBERLAND. 

[  The  United  States  war-ship  Cumberland,  commanded  by 
Captain  Morris,  was  sunk,  with  her  crew  of  a  hundred 
men,  by  the  Confederate  ram  Merrimac,  in  the  famous  na 
val  battle  at  Hampton  Reads,  Fa.,  March  g,  1862.  After 
sinking,  the  flag  at  her  mainmast  still  floated  above  the 
water. ] 

AT  anchor  in  Hampton  Roads  we  lay, 

On  board  of  the  Cumberland,  sloop-of-war ; 
And  at  times  from  the  fortress  across  the  bay 
The  alarum  of  drums  swept  past, 
Or  a  bugle  blast 
From  the  camp  on  the  shore. 

Then  far  away  to  the  south  uprose 

A  little  feather  of  snow-white  smoke, 
And  we  knew  that  the  iron  ship  of  our  foes 
Was  steadily  steering  its  course 
To  try  the  force 
Of  our  ribs  of  oak. 

Down  upon  us  heavily  runs, 

Silent  and  sullen,  the  floating  fort ; 
Then  comes  a  puff  of  smoke  from  her  guns, 
And  leaps  the  terrible  death, 
With  fiery  breath, 
From  each  open  port. 

We  are  not  idle,  but  send  her  straight 

Defiance  back  in  a  full  broadside ! 
As  hail  rebounds  from  a  roof  of  slate, 
Rebounds  our  heavier  hail 
From  each  iron  scale 
Of  the  monster's  hide. 

"  Strike  your  flag  !"  the  rebel  cries, 

In  his  arrogant  old  plantation  strain. 
"  Never !"  our  gallant  Morris  replies  ; 
"  It  is  better  to  sink  than  to  yield !" 
And  the  whole  air  pealed 
With  the  cheers  of  our  men. 


HI 


Then,  like  a  kraken  huge  and  black, 

She  crushed  our  ribs  in  her  iron  grasp  ! 
Down  went  the  Cumberland  all  a-wrack, 
With  a  sudden  shudder  of  death, 
And  the  cannon's  breath 
For  her  dying  gasp. 

Next  morn,  as  the  sun  rose  over  the  bay, 

Still  floated  our  flag  at  the  mainmast  head. 
Lord,  how  beautiful  was  Thy  day ! 
Every  waft  of  the  air 
Was  a  whisper  of  prayer, 
Or  a  dirge  for  the  dead. 

Ho  !  brave  hearts  that  went  down  in  the  seas  ! 

Ye  are  at  peace  in  the  troubled  stream  ; 
Ho  !  brave  land  with  hearts  like  these, 
Thy  flag,  that  is  rent  in  twain. 
Shall  be  one  again, 
And  without  a  seam  ! 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


THE  RIVER  FIGHT. 

[/«  April,  1862,  Admiral  Farrag ut  ran  his  squadron  past 
the  Confederate  batteries  defending  the  Lower  Mississippi, 
encountering  and  defeating  a  fleet  of  steamers,  rams,  and 
fire-rafts.} 

***** 

WOULD  you  hear  of  the  River  Fight? 
It  was  two,  of  a  soft  spring  night — 

God's  stars  looked  down  on  all, 
And  all  was  clear  and  bright 
But  the  low  fog's  chilling  breath  ; 
Up  the  river  of  Death 

Sailed  the  Great  Admiral. 


On  our  high  poop-deck  he  stood, 

And  round  him  ranged  the  men 
Who  have  made  their  birthright  good 

Of  manhood,  once  and  agen — 
Lords  of  helm  and  of  sail, 
Tried  in  tempest  and  gale, 

Bronzed  in  battle  and  wreck — 
Bell  and  Bailey  grandly  led 
Each  his  line  of  the  blue  and  red — 
Wainwright  stood  by  our  starboard  rail, 

Thornton  fought  the  deck. 

And  I  mind  me  of  more  than  they, 
Of  the  youthful,  steadfast  ones, 
That  have  shown  them  worthy  sons 

Of  the  seamen  passed  away — 

(Tyson  conned  our  helm  that  day, 
Watson  stood  by  his  guns). 

What  thought  our  Admiral  then, 
Looking  down  on  his  men  ? 

Since  the  terrible  day 

(Day  of  renown  and  tears !) 

When  at  anchor  the  Essex  lay, 

Holding  her  foes  at  bay, 
When,  a  boy,  by  Porter's  side  he  stood 
Till  deck  and  plank-sheer  were  dyed  with  blood, 
'Tis  half  a  hundred  years — 

Half  a  hundred  years,  to-day  ! 

Who  could  fail,  with  him  ? 
Who  reckon  of  life  or  limb  ? 

Not  a  pulse  but  beat  the  higher ! 
There  had  you  seen,  by  the  star-light  dim, 
Five  hundred  faces  strong  and  grim — 

The  Flag  is  going  under  fire ! 
Right  up  by  the  fort,  with  her  helm  hard  a-port, 

The  Hartford  is  going  under  fire ! 


The  way  to  our  work  was  plain  : 
Caldwell  had  broken  the  chain 
(Two  hulks  swung  down  amain, 

Soon  as  'twas  sundered) — 
Under  the  night's  dark  blue, 
Steering  steady  and  true, 
Ship  after  ship  went  through — 
Till,  as  we  hove  in  view, 

Jackson  out-thundered. 

Back  echoed  Philip  !  Ah,  then— 
Could  you  have  seen  our  men, 

How  they  sprung,  in  the  dim  night  haze, 
To  their  work  of  toil  and  of  clamor ! 
How  the  loaders,  with  sponge  and  rammer, 
And  their  captains,  with  cord  and  hammer, 

Kept  every  muzzle  ablaze  ! 
How  the  guns,  as  with  cheer  and  shout 
Our  tackle-men  hurled  them  out, 

Brought  up  on  the  water-ways ! 

First,  as  we  fired  at  their  flash, 
'Twas  lightning  and  black  eclipse, 

With  a  bellowing  roll  and  crash ; 

But  soon,  upon  either  bow, 

What  with  forts,  and  fire-rafts,  and  ships — 

(The  whole  fleet  was  hard  at  it  now, 

All  pounding  away  !)  and  Porter 

Still  thundering  with  shell  and  mortar — 

'Twas  the  mighty  sound  and  form 

Of  an  equatorial  storm  ! 

(Such  you  see  in  the  far  south, 

After  long  heat  and  drouth, 
As  day  draws  nigh  to  even — 

Arching  from  north  to  south, 
Blinding  the  tropic  sun, 
The  great  black  bow  comes  on — 

Till  the  thunder-veil  is  riven, 

When  all  is  crash  and  levin, 


And  the  cannonade  of  heaven 
Rolls  down  the  Amazon  !) 

But  as  we  worked  along  higher, 

Just  where  the  river  enlarges, 
Down  came  a  pyramid  of  fire — 

It  was  one  of  your  long  coal  barges. 

(We  had  often  had  the  like  before) — 
'Twas  coming  down  on  us  to  larboard, 

Well  in  with  the  eastern  shore — 

And  our  pilot,  to  let  it  pass  round 

(You  may  guess  we  never  stopped  to  sound), 
Giving  us  a  rank  sheer  to  starboard, 

Ran  the  Flag  hard  and  fast  aground ! 

'Twas  nigh  abreast  of  the  Upper  Fort ; 

And  straightway  a  rascal  ram 

(She  was  shaped  like  the  devil's  dam) 
Puffed  away  for  us,  with  a  snort, 

And  shoved  it,  with  spiteful  strength, 
Right  alongside  of  us,  to  port — 

It  was  all  of  our  ship's  length, 
A  huge  crackling  cradle  of  the  pit ! 

Pitch-pine  knots  to  the  brim, 

Belching  flame  red  and  grim — 
What  a  roar  came  up  from  it ! 

Well,  for  a  little  it  looked  bad — 

But  these  things  are,  somehow,  shorter 
In  the  acting  than  the  telling — 
There  was  no  singing-out  nor  yelling, 
Nor  any  fussing  and  fretting, 

No  stampede,  in  short — 
But  there  we  were,  my  lad, 

All  a-fire  on  our  port  quarter ! 
Hammocks  a-blaze  in  the  netting, 

Flame  spouting  in  at  every  port — 
Our  fourth  cutter  burning  at  the  davit 
(No  chance  to  lower  away  and  save  it). 


as 


In  a  twinkling,  the  flames  had  risen 
Halfway  to  maintop  and  mizzen, 

Darting  up  the  shrouds  like  snakes  ! 

Ah  !  how  we  clanked  at  the  brakes, 

And  the  deep  steam-pumps  throbbed  under, 

Sending  a  ceaseless  flow  ! 
Our  top-men,  a  dauntless  crowd, 
Swarmed  in  rigging  and  shroud — 

There  ('twas  a  wonder  !) 
The  burning  ratlins  and  strands 
They  quenched  with  their  bare  hard  hands — 

But  the  great  guns  below 

Never  silenced  their  thunder ! 

At  last,  by  backing  and  sounding, 
When  we  were  clear  of  grounding, 

And  under  headway  once  more, 
The  whole  rebel  fleet  came  rounding 

The  point.     If  we  had  it  hot  before, 

'Twas  now,  from  shore  to  shore, 

One  long,  loud,  thundering  roar — 
Such  crashing,  splintering,  and  pounding, 

And  smashing  as  you  never  heard  before ! 

But  that  we  fought  foul  wrong  to  wreck, 
And  to  save  the  land  we  loved  so  well, 

You  might  have  deemed  our  long  gun-deck 
Two  hundred  feet  of  hell ! 

For  all  above  was  battle, 
Broadside,  and  blaze,  and  rattle, 

Smoke  and  thunder  alone — 
(But  down  in  the  sick-bay, 
Where  our  wounded  and  dying  lay, 

There  was  scarce  a  sob  or  a  moan.) 
And  at  last,  when  the  dim  day  broke, 
And  the  sullen  sun  awoke, 

Drearily  blinking 
O'er  the  haze  and  the  cannon-smoke. 


BB 


That  ever  such  morning  dulls — 
There  were  thirteen  traitor  hulls 
On  fire  and  sinking  ! 

Now,  up  the  river  ! — though  mad  Chalmette 

Sputters  a  vain  resistance  yet. 

Small  helm  we  gave  her,  our  course  to  steer — 

'Twas  nicer  work  than  you  well  would  dream, 
With  cant  and  sheer  to  keep  her  clear 

Of  the  burning  wrecks  that  cumbered  the  stream. 

The  Louisiana,  hurled  on  high, 

Mounts  in  thunder  to  meet  the  sky  ! 

Then  down  to  the  depths  of  the  turbid  flood 

Fifty  fathom  of  rebel  mud  ! 

The  Mississippi  comes  floating  down, 

A  mighty  bonfire,  from  off  the  town — 

And  along  the  river,  on  stocks  and  ways, 

A  half-hatched  devil's  brood  is  ablaze ; 

The  great  Anglo-Norman  is  all  in  flames, 

(Hark  to  the  roar  of  her  tumbling  frames  !) 

And  the  smaller  fry  that    Treason  would   spawn 

Are  lighting  Algiers  like  an  angry  dawn  ! 

From  stem  to  stern,  how  the  pirates  burn, 
Fired  by  the  furious  hands  that  built ! 

So  to  ashes  forever  turn 

The  suicide  wrecks  of  wrong  and  guilt ! 

But  as  we  neared  the  city, 

By  field  and  vast  plantation, 

(Ah,  millstone  of  our  nation  !) 
With  wonder  and  with  pity 

What  crowds  we  there  espied 
Of  dark  and  wistful  faces, 
Mute  in  their  toiling-places, 

Strangely  and  sadly  eyed — • 
Haply,  'mid  doubt  and  fear, 
Deeming  deliverance  near — 
(One  gave  the  ghost  of  a  cheer !) 


B? 


And  on  that  dolorous  strand, 

To  greet  the  victor-brave 

One  flag  did  welcome  wave — 
Raised,  ah  me  !  by  a  wretched  hand 
All  outworn  on  our  cruel  land — 

The  withered  hand  of  a  slave  ! 
But  all  along  the  levee, 

In  a  dark  and  drenching  rain 
(By  this,  'twas  pouring  heavy), 

Stood  a  fierce  and  sullen  train — 

A  strange  and  a  frenzied  time  ! 

There  were  scowling  rage  and  pain, 
Curses,  howls,  and  hisses, 
Out  of  hate's  black  abysses — 
Their  courage  and  their  crime 
All  in  vain — all  in  vain  ! 

For  from  the  hour  that  the  rebel  stream, 
With  the  Crescent  City  lying  abeam, 

Shuddered  under  our  keel, 
Smit  to  the  heart  with  self-struck  sting, 
Slavery  died  in  her  scorpion-ring, 

And  Murder  fell  on  his  steel. 

'Tis  well  to  do  and  dare — 
But  ever  may  grateful  prayer 
Follow,  as  aye  it  ought, 
When  the  good  fight  is  fought, 

When  the  true  deed  is  done ; 
Aloft  in  heaven's  pure  light 
(Deep  azure  crossed  on  white), 
Our  fair  Church-Pennant  waves 
O'er  a  thousand  thankful  braves, 

Bareheaded  in  God's  bright  sun. 

Lord  of  mercy  and  frown, 
Ruling  o'er  sea  and  shore, 
Send  us  such  scene  once  more ! 
All  in  Line  of  Battle 


BB 


When  the  black  ships  bear  down 
On  tyrant  fort  and  town, 

'Mid  cannon  cloud  and  rattle — 
And  the  great  guns  once  more 
Thunder  back  the  roar 
Of  the  traitor  walls  ashore, 
And  the  traitor  flags  come  down  ! 

HENRY  HOWARD  BROWNELL. 


ASH  BY. 

[Genera/  Turner  Ashby,  a  noted  Confederate  cavalry 
officer  fell  in  an  engagement  at  ffarrisburg,  Va.^  June, 
1862.] 

To  the  brave  all  homage  render ; 

Weep,  ye  skies  of  June  ! 
With  a  radiance  pure  and  tender, 

Shine,  O  saddened  moon  ! 
"  Dead  upon  the  field  of  glory  /" — 
Hero  fit  for  song  and  story — 

Lies  our  bold  dragoon  ! 

Well  they  learned,  whose  hands  have  slain  him, 

Braver,  knightlier  foe 
Never  fought  'gainst  Moor  or  Paynim — 

Rode  at  Templestowe  : 
With  a  mien  how  high  and  joyous, 
'Gainst  the  hordes  that  would  destroy  us 

Went  he  forth,  we  know. 

Nevermore,  alas  !  shall  sabre 

Gleam  around  his  crest — 
Fought  his  fight,  fulfilled  his  labor, 

Stilled  his  manly  breast — 
All  unheard  sweet  nature's  cadence, 
Trump  of  fame  and  voice  of  maidens ; 

Now  he  takes  his  rest. 


09 


Earth,  that  all  too  soon  hath  bound  him 

Gently  wrap  his  clay  ! 
Linger  lovingly  around  him, 

Light  of  dying  day  ! 
Softly  fall,  ye  summer  showers  ; 
Birds  and  bees,  among  the  flowers 

Make  the  gloom  seem  gay. 

Then,  throughout  the  coming  ages, 

When  his  sword  is  rust, 
And  his  deeds  in  classic  pages — 

Mindful  of  her  trust — 
Shall  Virginia,  bending  lowly, 
Still  a  ceaseless  vigil  holy 

Keep  above  his  dust ! 

JOHN  R.  THOMPSON. 


STONEWALL  JACKSON'S  WAY. 

[These  verses,  says  Mr.  William  Gilmore  Simms,  "were 
found,  stained  ivith  blood,  in  the  breast  of  a  dead  soldier  of 
the  old  Stonewall  Brigade,  after  one  of  Jackson's  battles  in 
the  Shenandoah  Valley.'1'1  Thoughividely  copied  and  justly 
admired,  their  authorship  long  remained  a  well-kept  secret ; 
but  the  compiler  of  the  present  volume  has  been  so  fortu 
nate  as  to  discover  that  they  were  unquestionably  written  by 
Dr.  y.  W.  Palmer,  of  Maryland^} 

COME,  stack  arms,  men  !    Pile  on  the  rails, 

Stir  up  the  camp-fire  bright ; 
No  growling  if  the  canteen  fails, 

We'll  make  a  roaring  night. 
Here  Shenandoah  brawls  along, 
There  burly  Blue  Ridge  echoes  strong, 
To  swell  the  Brigade's  rousing  song 

Of  "  Stonewall  Jackson's  way." 


an 


We  see  him  now — the  queer  slouched  hat 

Cocked  o'er  his  eye  askew  ; 
The  shrewd,  dry  smile  ;  the  speech  so  pat, 

So  calm,  so  blunt,  so  true. 
The  "  Blue-Light  Elder  "  knows  'em  well ; 
Says  he,  "  That's  Banks— he's  fond  of  shell  ; 
Lord  save  his  soul  !  we'll  give  him — " ;  well ! 

That's  "  Stonewall  Jackson's  way." 

Silence  !  ground  arms  !  kneel  all !  caps  off ! 

Old  Massa's  goin'  to  pray. 
Strangle  the  fool  that  dares  to  scoff  ! 

Attention  !  it's  his  way. 
Appealing  from  his  native  sod, 
In  forma  pauper  is  to  God  : 
"  Lay  bare  Thine  arm  ;  stretch  forth  Thy  rod  ' 

Amen  !"     That's  "  Stonewall's  way." 

He's  in  the  saddle  now.     Fall  in  ! 

Steady  !  the  whole  brigade  ! 
Hill's  at  the  ford,  cut  off  ;  we'll  win 

His  way  out,  ball  and  blade  ! 
What  matter  if  our  shoes  are  worn  ? 
What  matter  if  our  feet  are  torn  ? 
"  Quick  step  !  we're  with  him  before  morn !" 

That's  "  Stonewall  Jackson's  way." 

The  sun's  bright  lances  rout  the  mists 

Of  morning,  and,  by  George  ! 
Here's  Longstreet,  struggling  in  the  lists, 

Hemmed  in  an  ugly  gorge. 
Pope  and  his  Dutchmen,  whipped  before ; 
"  Bay'nets  and  grape  !"  hear  Stonewall  roar  ; 
"  Charge,  Stuart !     Pay  off  Ashby's  score  !" 
In  "  Stonewall  Jackson's  way." 

Ah  !  Maiden,  wait  and  watch  and  yearn 

For  news  of  Stonewall's  band  ! 
Ah  !  Widow,  read,  with  eyes  that  burn, 

That  ring  upon  thy  hand. 


1Bitgl?-i:rIj0?H  si 


Ah  !  Wife,  sew  on,  pray  on,  hope  on  ; 
Thy  life  shall  not  be  all  forlorn  ; 
The  foe  had  better  ne'er  been  born 
That  gets  in  "  Stonewall's  way." 

J.  W.  PALMER. 


THE  BAREFOOTED  BOYS. 


BY  the  sword  of  St.  Michael 

The  old  dragon  through  ; 
By  David  his  sling 

And  the  giant  he  slew  ; 
Let  us  write  us  a  rhyme, 

As  a  record  to  tell 
How  the  South  on  a  time 

Stormed  the  ramparts  of  Hell 
With  her  barefooted  boys ! 

II. 

Had  the  South  in  her  border 

A  hero  to  spare, 
Or  a  heart  at  her  altar, 

Lo  !  its  life's  blood  was  there  ! 
And  the  black  battle-grime 

Might  never  disguise 
The  smile  of  the  South 

On  the  lips  and  the  eyes 

Of  her  barefooted  boys ! 

III. 

There's  a  grandeur  in  fight, 

And  a  terror  the  while, 
But  none  like  the  light 

Of  that  terrible  smile — 


92 


The  smile  of  the  South, 
When  the  storm-cloud  unrolls 
The  lightning  that  loosens 
The  wrath  in  the  souls 

Of  her  barefooted  boys  ! 

IV. 

It  withered  the  foe 
Like  the  red  light  that  runs 
Through  the  dead  forest  leaves, 
And  he  fled  from  his  guns  ! 
Grew  the  smile  to  a  laugh, 
Rose  the  laugh  to  a  yell, 
As  the  iron-clad  hoofs 
Clattered  back  into  Hell 

From  our  barefooted  boys ! 

ANONYMOUS. 


REVEILLE. 

f  Written  by  a  sergeant  in  the  i^oth  Regiment  of  New 
York  Volunteers,  who  died  at  Potomac  Station,  Va.,  Decem 
ber  28,  1862,  aged  twenty-five  years.  An  eminent  authority 
says  of  this  poem,  that  it  contains  "  almost  the  finest  lyric 
line  in  the  language."] 

THE  morning  is  cheery,  my  boys,  arouse  ! 
The  dew  shines  bright  on  the  chestnut  boughs, 
And  the  sleepy  mist  on  the  river  lies, 
Though  the  east  is  flushing  with  crimson  dyes. 

Awake  !  awake  !  aavake  ! 

O'er  field  and  wood  and  brake, 

With  glories  newly  born, 

Comes  on  the  blushing  morn. 
Awake  !  awake  ! 

You  have  dreamed  of  your  homes  and  friends  all 

night ; 
You   have  basked  in  your  sweethearts'  smiles  so 

bright ; 


Come,  part  with  them  all  for  a  while  again, — 
Be  lovers  in  dreams ;  when  awake,  be  men. 
Turn  out !  turn  out !  turn  out ! 

You  have  dreamed  full  long,  I  know. 
Turn  out  !  turn  out  !  turn  out ! 
The  east  is  all  aglow. 

Turn  out !  turn  out ! 

From  every  valley  and  hill  there  come 
The  clamoring  voices  of  fife  and  drum  ; 
And  out  in  the  fresh,  cool  morning  air 
The  soldiers  are  swarming  everywhere. 
Fall  in  !  fall  in  !  fall  in  ! 
Every  man  in  his  place. 
Fall  in  !  fall  in  !  fall  in  ! 
Each  with  a  cheerful  face. 
Fall  in  !  fall  in  ! 

MICHAEL  O'CONNOR. 


SPRING  IN  WAR-TIME 

SPRING,  with  that  nameless  pathos  in  the  air 
Which  dwells  with  all  things  fair, 
Spring,  with  her  golden  suns  and  silver  rain, 
Is  with  us  once  again. 

Out  in  the  lonely  woods  the  jasmine  bums 
Its  fragrant  lamps,  and  turns 
Into  a  royal  court  with  green  festoons 
The  banks  of  dark  lagoons. 

In  the  deep  heart  of  every  forest  tree 
The  blood  is  all  aglee, 

And  there's  a  look  about  the  leafless  bowers 
As  if  they  dreamed  of  flowers. 

Yet  still  on  every  side  appears  the  hand 
Of  Winter  in  the  land, 


94 


Save  where  the  maple  reddens  on  the  lawn, 
Flushed  by  the  season's  dawn  ; 

Or  where,  like  those  strange  semblances  we  find 
That  age  to  childhood  bind, 
The  elm  puts  on,  as  if  in  Nature's  scorn, 
The  brown  of  Autumn  corn. 

As  yet  the  turf  is  dark,  although  you  know 
That,  not  a  span  below, 

A  thousand  germs  are  groping  through  the  gloom, 
And  soon  will  burst  their  tomb. 

Already,  here  and  there,  on  frailest  stems 
Appear  some  azure  gems, 
Small  as  might  deck,  upon  a  gala  day, 
The  forehead  of  a  fay. 

In  gardens  you  may  see,  amid  the  dearth. 

The  crocus  breaking  earth  ; 

And  near  the  snowdrop's  tender  white  and  green, 

The  violet  in  its  screen. 

But  many  gleams  and  shadows  needs  must  pass 
Along  the  budding  grass, 
And  weeks  go  by,  before  the  enamored  South 
Shall  kiss  the  rose's  mouth. 

Still  there's  a  sense  of  blossoms  yet  unborn 
In  the  sweet  airs  of  morn  ; 
One  almost  looks  to  see  the  very  street 
Grow  purple  at  his  feet. 

At  times  a  fragrant  breeze  comes  floating  by, 
And  brings,  you  know  not  why, 
A  feeling  as  when  eager  crowds  await 
Before  a  palace  gate 

Some  wondrous  pageant ;  and  you  scarce  would  start, 
If  from  a  beech's  heart 

A  blue-eyed  Dryad,  stepping  forth,  should  say — 
"  Behold  me  !  I  am  May  !" 


as 


Ah,  who  would  couple  thoughts  of  war  and  crime 
With  such  a  blessed  time  ! 
Who  in  the  west-wind's  aromatic  breath 
Could  hear  the  call  of  Death  ! 

Yet  not  more  surely  shall  the  Spring  awake 
The  voice  of  wood  and  brake, 
Than  she  shall  rouse,  for  all  her  tranquil  charms 
A  million  men  to  arms. 

There  shall  be  deeper  hues  upon  her  plains 
Than  all  her  sunlight  rains, 
And  every  gladdening  influence  around 
Can  summon  from  the  ground. 

Oh  !  standing  on  this  desecrated  mould, 
Methinks  that  I  behold, 
Lifting  her  bloody  daisies  up  to  God, 
Spring,  kneeling  on  the  sod, 

And  calling  with  the  voice  of  all  her  rills 
Upon  the  ancient  hills 

To  fall  and  crush  the  tyrants  and  the  slaves 
Who  turn  her  meads  to  graves. 

HENRY  TIMROD. 


SPRING  AT  THE  CAPITAL. 

THE  poplar  drops  beside  the  way 
Its  tasselled  plumes  of  silver  gray ; 
The  chestnut  points  its  great  brown  buds,  impa 
tient  for  the  laggard  May. 

The  honeysuckles  lace  the  wall ; 
The  hyacinths  grow  fair  and  tall ; 
And  mellow  sun  and  pleasant  wind  and  odorous 
bees  are  over  all. 


Down-looking  in  this  snow-white  bud, 
How  distant  seems  the  war's  red  flood ! 
How  far  remote  the  streaming  wounds,  the  sicken 
ing  scent  of  human  blood  ! 

For  Nature  does  not  recognize 
This  strife  that  rends  the  earth  and  skies ; 
No   war-dreams   vex  the    winter  sleep   of    clover- 
heads  and  daisy-eyes. 

She  holds  her  even  way  the  same, 
Though  navies  sink  or  cities  flame  ; 
A  snow-drop  is  a  snow-drop  still,  despite  the  Na 
tion's  joy  or  shame. 

When  blood  her  grassy  altar  wets, 
She  sends  the  pitying  violets 

To  heal  the  outrage  with  their  bloom,  and  cover  it 
with  soft  regrets. 

O  crocuses  with  rain-wet  eyes, 
O  tender-lipped  anemones, 

What  do  you  know  of  agony,  and  death,  and  blood- 
won  victories  ? 

No  shudder  breaks  your  sunshine  trance, 
Though  near  you  rolls,  with  slow  advance, 
Clouding  your  shining  leaves  with  dust,  the  anguish- 
laden  ambulance. 

Yonder  a  white  encampment  hums ; 
The  clash  of  martial  music  comes  ; 
And  now  your  startled  stems  are  all  a-tremble  with 
the  jar  of  drums. 

Whether  it  lessen  or  increase, 
Or  whether  trumpets  shout  or  cease, 
Still  deep  within    your  tranquil   hearts  the  happy 
bees  are  humming  "  Peace  !" 


ar 


O  flowers  !  the  soul  that  faints  or  grieves 
New  comfort  from  your  lips  receives  ; 
Sweet  confidence  and  patient  faith  are  hidden  in 
your  healing  leaves. 

Help  us  to  trust,  still  on  and  on, 
That  this  dark  night  will  soon  be  gone, 
And  that  these  battle-stains  are  but  the  blood-red 
trouble  of  the  dawn  — 

Dawn  of  a  broader,  whiter  day 
Than  ever  blessed  us  with  its  ray  — 
A  dawn  beneath  whose  purer  light  all  guilt  and 
wrong  shall  fade  away. 

Then  shall  our  nation  break  its  bands, 
And,  silencing  the  envious  lands, 
Stand  in  the  searching  light  unshamed,  with  spot- 
less  robe  and  clean  white  hands. 

ELIZABETH  AKERS  ALLEN. 


AT  PORT  ROYAL. 

[1862.] 

THE  tent-lights  glimmer  on  the  land, 

The  ship-lights  on  the  sea ; 
The  night-wind  smooths  with  drifting  sand 

Our  track  on  lone  Tybee. 

At  last  our  grating  keels  outslide, 
Our  good  boats  forward  swing; 

And  while  we  ride  the  land-locked  tide, 
Our  negroes  row  and  sing. 

For  dear  the  bondman  holds  his  gifts 
Of  music  and  of  song : 


The  gold  that  kindly  Nature  sifts 
Among  his  sands  of  wrong ; 

The  power  to  make  his  toiling  days 
And  poor  home-comforts  please  ; 

The  quaint  relief  of  mirth  that  plays 
With  sorrow's  minor  keys. 

Another  glow  than  sunset's  fire 
Has  filled  the  West  with  light, 

Where  field  and  garner,  barn  and  byre, 
Are  blazing  through  the  night. 

The  land  is  wild  with  fear  and  hate, 
The  rout  runs  mad  and  fast ; 

From  hand  to  hand,  from  gate  to  gate, 
The  flaming  brand  is  passed. 

The  lurid  glow  falls  strong  across 
Dark  faces  broad  with  smiles  : 

Not  theirs  the  terror,  hate,  and  loss 
That  fire  yon  blazing  piles. 

With  oar-strokes  timing  to  their  song, 

They  weave  in  simple  lays 
The  pathos  of  remembered  wrong, 

The  hope  of  better  days, — 

The  triumph-note  that  Miriam  sung, 

The  joy  of  uncaged  birds : 
Softening  with  Afric's  mellow  tongue 

Their  broken  Saxon  words. 


SONG  OF  THE  NEGRO  BOATMEN. 

Oh,  praise  an'  tanks  !    De  Lord  he  come 

To  set  de  people  free ; 
An'  massa  tink  it  day  ob  doom, 

An'  we  ob  jubilee. 


aa 


De  Lord  dat  heap  de  Red  Sea  waves 

He  jus'  as  'trong  as  den  ; 
He  say  de  word  :  we  las'  night  slaves ; 
To-day,  de  Lord's  freemen. 

De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

We'll  hab  de  rice  an'  corn  : 
Oh,  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn  ! 

Ole  massa  on  he  trabbels  gone ; 

He  leaf  de  land  behind  : 
De  Lord's  breff  blow  him  furder  on, 

Like  corn-shuck  in  de  wind. 
We  own  de  hoe,  we  own  de  plough, 

We  own  de  hands  dat  hold  ; 
We  sell  de  pig,  we  sell  de  cow, 
But  nebber  chile  be  sold. 

De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

We'll  hab  de  rice  an'  corn  : 
Oh,  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn  ! 

We  pray  de  Lord  :  he  gib  us  signs 

Dat  some  day  we  be  free  ; 
De  norf-wind  tell  it  to  de  pines, 

De  wild-duck  to  de  sea : 
We  tink  it  when  de  church-bell  ring, 

We  dream  it  in  de  dream  ; 
De  rice-bird  mean  it  when  he  sing, 
De  eagle  when  he  scream. 

De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

We'll  hab  de  rice  an'  corn  : 
Oh,  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn  ! 

We  know  de  promise  nebber  fail, 

An'  nebber  lie  de  word  ; 
So  like  de  'postles  in  de  jail, 

We  waited  for  de  Lord  : 


An'  now  he  open  ebery  door, 

An'  trow  away  de  key ; 
He  link  we  lub  him  so  before, 
We  lub  him  better  free. 

De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

He'll  gib  de  rice  an'  corn : 
Oh,  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  heal 
De  driver  blow  his  horn  ! 


So  sing  our  dusky  gondoliers ; 

And  with  a  secret  pain, 
And  smiles  that  seem  akin  to  tears, 

We  hear  the  wild  refrain. 

We  dare  not  share  the  negro's  trust, 

Nor  yet  his  hope  deny ; 
We  only  know  that  God  is  just, 

And  every  wrong  shall  die. 

Rude  seems  the  song  ;  each  swarthy  face, 

Flame-lighted,  ruder  still : 
We  start  to  think  that  hapless  race 

Must  shape  our  good  or  ill ; 

That  laws  of  changeless  justice  bind 

Oppressor  with  oppressed ; 
And,  close  as  sin  and  suffering  joined, 

We  march  to  Fate  abreast. 

Sing  on,  poor  hearts  !  your  chant  shall  be 

Our  sign  of  blight  or  bloom, — 
The  Vala-song  of  Liberty, 

Or  death-rune  of  our  doom  ! 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 


mi 


CAROLINA. 

I. 

THE  despot  treads  thy  sacred  sands, 
Thy  pines  give  shelter  to  his  bands. 
Thy  sons  stand  by  with  idle  hands, 

Carolina ! 

He  breathes  at  ease  thy  airs  of  balm, 
He  scorns  the  lances  of  thy  palm  ; 
Oh,  who  shall  break  thy  craven  calm, 

Carolina ! 

Thy  ancient  fame  is  growing  dim, 
A  spot  is  on  thy  garment's  rim ; 
Give  to  the  winds  thy  battle-hymn, 

Carolina ! 

II. 

Call  on  thy  children  of  the  hill, 
Wake  swamp  and  river,  coast  and  rill, 
Rouse  all  thy  strength  and  all  thy  skill, 

Carolina ! 

Cite  wealth  and  science,  trade  and  art, 
Touch  with  thy  fire  the  cautious  mart, 
And  pour  thee  through  the  people's  heart, 

Carolina ! 

Till  even  the  coward  spurns  his  fears, 
And  all  thy  fields  and  fens  and  meres 
Shall  bristle  like  thy  palm  with  spears, 

Carolina ! 

III. 

Hold  up  the  glories  of  thy  dead  ; 
Say  how  thy  elder  children  bled, 
And  point  to  Eutaw's  battle-bed, 

Carolina ! 

Tell  how  the  patriot's  soul  was  tried, 
And  what  his  dauntless  breast  defied  ; 
How  Rutledge  ruled  and  Laurens  died, 

Carolina ! 


Cry !  till  thy  summons,  heard  at  last, 
Shall  fall  like  Marion's  bugle-blast 
Re-echoed  from  the  haunted  Past, 
Carolina ! 

IV. 

I  hear  a  murmur  as  of  waves 

That  grope  their  way  through  sunless  caves, 

Like  bodies  struggling  in  their  graves, 

Carolina ! 

And  now  it  deepens  ;  slow  and  grand 
It  swells,  as,  rolling  to  the  land 
An  ocean  broke  upon  thy  strand, 

Carolina ! 

Shout !  let  it  reach  the  startled  Huns, 
And  roar  with  all  thy  festal  guns  ; 
It  is  the  answer  of  thy  sons, 

Carolina ! 

V. 

They  will  not  wait  to  hear  the  call ; 
From  Sachem's  Head  to  Sumter's  wall 
Resounds  the  voice  of  hut  and  hall, 

Carolina ! 

No  !  thou  hast  not  a  stain,  they  say, 
Or  none  save  what  the  battle-day 
Shall  wash  in  seas  of  blood  away, 

Carolina ! 

Thy  skirts  indeed  the  foe  may  part, 
Thy  robe  be  pierced  with  sword  and  dart, 
They  shall  not  touch  thy  noble  heart, 

Carolina ! 

VI. 

Ere  thou  shalt  own  the  tyrant's  thrall 
Ten  times  ten  thousand  men  must  fall ; 
Thy  corpse  may  hearken  to  his  call, 
Carolina ! 


103 


When,  by  thy  bier,  in  mournful  throngs 
The  women  chant  thy  mortal  wrongs, 
'Twill  be  their  own  funereal  songs, 

Carolina! 

From  thy  dead  breast  by  ruffians  trod 
No  helpless  child  shall  look  to  God  ; 
All  shall  be  safe  beneath  thy  sod, 

Carolina ! 

VII. 

Girt  with  such  wills  to  do  and  bear, 
Assured  in  right,  and  mailed  in  prayer, 
Thou  wilt  not  bow  thee  to  despair, 

Carolina ! 

Throw  thy  bold  banner  to  the  breeze  1 
Front  with  thy  ranks  the  threatening  seas 
Like  thine  own  proud  armorial  trees, 

Carolina ! 

Fling  down  thy  gauntlet  to  the  Huns, 
And  roar  the  challenge  from  thy  guns ; 
Then  leave  the  future  to  thy  sons, 

Carolina ! 

HENRY  TIMROD. 


VOYAGE  OF  THE  GOOD   SHIP  UNION. 

[1862.] 

'Tis  midnight :  through  my  troubled  dream 

Loud  wails  the  tempest's  cry  ; 
Before  the  gale,  with  tattered  sail, 

A  ship  goes  plunging  by. 
What  name  ?     Where  bound  ? — The  rocks  around 

Repeat  the  loud  halloo. 
— The  good  ship  Union,  southward  bound  : 

God  help  her  and  her  crew  I 


And  is  the  old  flag  flying  still 

That  o'er  your  fathers  flew, 
With  bands  of  white  and  rosy  light, 

And  field  of  starry  blue  ? 
— Ay !  look  aloft !  its  folds  full  oft 

Have  braved  the  roaring  blast, 
And  still  shall  fly  when  from  the  sky 

This  black  typhoon  has  past ! 

Speak,  pilot  of  the  storm-tost  bark ! 

May  I  thy  peril  share  ? 

•O  landsmen,  these  are  fearful  seas 

The  brave  alone  may  dare  ! 

-Nay,  ruler  of  the  rebel  deep, 

What  matters  wind  or  wave  ? 
The  rocks  that  wreck  your  reeling  deck 

Will  leave  me  nought  to  save ! 

O  landsman,  art  thou  false  or  true  ? 

What  sign  hast  thou  to  show  ? 

The  crimson  stains  from  loyal  veins 

That  hold  my  heart-blood's  flow  ! 

Enough  !  what  more  shall  honor  claim  ? 

I  know  the  sacred  sign ; 
Above  thy  head  our  flag  shall  spread, 

Our  ocean  path  be  thine  ! 

The  bark  sails  on  :  the  Pilgrim's  Cape 

Lies  low  along  her  lee, 
Whose  headland  crooks  its  anchor-flukes 

To  lock  the  shore  and  sea. 
No  treason  here  !  it  cost  too  dear 

To  win  this  barren  realm  ! 
And  true  and  free  the  hands  must  be 

That  hold  the  whaler's  helm  ! 

Still  on  !  Manhattan's  narrowing  bay 

No  Rebel  cruiser  scars  ; 
Her  waters  feel  no  pirate's  keel 

That  flaunts  the  fallen  stars  ! 


ins 


— But  watch  the  light  on  yonder  height, — 

Ay,  pilot,  have  a  care  ! 
Some  lingering  cloud  in  mist  may  shroud 

The  Capes  of  Delaware  ! 

Say,  pilot,  what  this  fort  may  be 

Whose  sentinels  look  down 
From  moated  walls  that  show  the  sea 

Their  deep  embrasures'  frown  ? 
The  Rebel  host  claims  all  the  coast, 

But  these  are  friends,  we  know, 
Whose  footprints  spoil  the  "  sacred  soil," 

And  this  is  ? Fort  Monroe  ! 

The  breakers  roar, — how  bears  the  shore  ? 

— The  traitorous  wreckers'  hands 
Have  quenched  the  blaze  that  poured  its  rays 

Along  the  Hatteras  sands. 

Ha  !  say  not  so  !     I  see  its  glow ! 

Again  the  shoals  display 
The  beacon  light  that  shines  by  night, 

The  Union  Stars  by  day  ! 

The  good  ship  flies  to  milder  skies, 

The  wave  more  gently  flows ; 
The  softening  breeze  wafts  o'er  the  seas 

The  breath  of  Beaufort's  rose. 
What  fold  is  this  the  sweet  winds  kiss, 

Fair-striped  and  many-starred, 
Whose  shadow  palls  these  orphaned  walls, 

The  twins  of  Beauregard  ? 

What !  heard  you  not  Port  Royal's  doom? 

How  the  black  war-ships  came 
And  turned  the  Beaufort  roses'  bloom 

To  redder  wreaths  of  flame  ? 
How  from  Rebellion's  broken  reed 

We  saw  his  emblem  fall, 
As  soon  his  cursed  poison-weed 

Shall  drop  from  Sumter's  wall  ? 


On  !  on  !  Pulaski's  iron  hail 

Falls  harmless  on  Tybee  ! 
The  good  ship  feels  the  freshening  gale, — 

She  strikes  the  open  sea  ; 
She  rounds  the  point,  she  threads  the  keys 

That  guard  the  Land  of  Flowers, 
And  rides  at  last  where  firm  and  fast 

Her  own  Gibraltar  towers  ! 

The  good  ship  Union's  voyage  is  o'er, 

At  anchor  safe  she  swings, 
And  loud  and  clear  with  cheer  on  cheer 

Her  joyous  welcome  rings : 
Hurrah  !  Hurrah  !  it  shakes  the  wave, 

It  thunders  on  the  shore, — 
One  flag,  one  land,  one  heart,  one  hand, 

One  Nation,  evermore ! 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 


THE  VIRGINIANS  OF  THE  VALLEY. 

THE  knightliest  of  the  knightly  race, 

Who,  since  the  days  of  old, 
Have  kept  the  lamp  of  chivalry 

Alight  in  hearts  of  gold  ; 
The  kindliest  of  the  kindly  band, 

Who,  rarely  hunting  ease, 
Yet  rode  with  Spotswood  round  the  land, 

And  Raleigh  round  the  seas  ; 

Who  climbed  the  blue  Virginian  hills, 

Against  embattled  foes, 
And  planted  there  in  valleys  fair 

The  lily  and  the  rose  ; 
Whose  fragrance  lives  in  many  lands. 

Whose  beauty  stars  the  earth, 


And  lights  the  hearts  of  many  homes 
In  loveliness  and  worth. 

We  thought  they  slept — the  sons  who  kept 

The  names  of  noble  sires, 
And  slumbered  while  the  darkness  crept 

Around  the  vigil  fires. 
But  still  the  Golden  Horseshoe  knights 

Their  old  dominion  keep, 
Whose  foes  have  found  enchanted  ground, 

But  not  a  knight  asleep. 

FRANCIS  O.  TICKNOR. 


KEARNEY  AT   SEVEN   PINES, 
[May  31,  1862.] 

So  that  soldierly  legend  is  still  on  its  journey — 

That  story  of  Kearney  who  knew  not  to  yield  ! 
'Twas  the  day  when  with  Jameson,  fierce  Berry,  and 

Birney, 

Against  twenty  thousand  he  rallied  the  field. 
Where  the  red  volleys  poured,  where  the  clamor  rose 

highest, 
Where  the  dead  lay  in  clumps  through  the  dwarf 

oak  and  pine, 
Where  the  aim  from  the  thicket  was  surest  and 

nighest, — 
No  charge  like  Phil  Kearney's  along  the  whole  line. 

When   the   battle  went  ill,  and  the  bravest  were 

solemn, 
Near  the  dark  Seven  Pines,  where  we  still  held 

our  ground, 

He  rode  down  the  length  of  the  withering  column, 
And  his  heart  at  our  war-cry  leapt  up  with  a  bound. 


inn 


He  snuffed,  like  his  charger,  the  wind  of  the  pow 
der, — 

His  sword  waved  us  on,  and  we  answered  the  sign  ; 
Loud  our  cheer  as  we  rushed,  but  his  laugh  rang  the 

louder : 

"There's  the  devil's  own  fun,    boys,   along   the 
whole  line !" 

How  he  strode  his  brown  steed  !    How  we  saw  his 

blade  brighten 
In   the  one   hand  still  left — and  the  reins  in  his 

teeth ! 

He  laughed  like  a  boy  when  the  holidays  heighten, 
But  a  soldier's  glance  shot  from  his  visor  beneath. 
Up  came  the  reserves  to  the  mellay  infernal, 

Asking  where  to  go  in — through   the  clearing  or 

pine  ? 

"  O,  anywhere  !  Forward  !  Tis  all  the  same,  Colonel : 
You'll  find  lovely  fighting  along  the  whole  line  !" 

O,  evil  the  black  shroud  of  night  at  Chantilly,1 
That  hid   him  from   sight  of  his  brave  men  and 

tried ! 

Foul,  foul  sped  the  bullet  that  clipped  the  white  lily, 
The  flower  of  our  knighthood,  the  whole  army's 

pride  ! 

Yet  we   dream  that  he  still — in  that  shadowy  region 
Where  the  dead   form  their  ranks   at   the  wan 

drummer's  sign — 

Rides   on,  as  of   old,  down  the  length  of  his  legion, 
And  the  word  still  is  Forward /  along  the  whole 
line. 

EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN. 

1  General  Philip  Kearney  lost  his  life  at  the  battle  of  Chantilly, 
Va.,  Sept.  i,  1862,  by  becoming  separated  from  his  men  and  ridine 
by  mistake  into  the  Confederate  line.  It  was  growing  dark  and 
raining  heavily,  when  Kearney,  coming  suddenly  upon  some  skir 
mishers,  asked  what  troops  they  were  ;  but  perceiving  they  were 
Confederates,  he  wheeled  his  horse  and  dashed  away.  Half-a- 
dozen  shots  rang  out,  and  he  fell  dead. 


ina 


DIRGE  FOR  A  SOLDIER. 
[In  Memory  of  General  Philip  Kearney,] 

CLOSE  his  eyes,  his  work  is  done  ! 
What  to  him  is  friend  or  foeman, 
Rise  of  moon,  or  set  of  sun, 

Hand  of  man,  or  kiss  of  woman  ? 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow  ! 
What  cares  he  ?  he  cannot  know  : 
Lay  him  low  ! 

As  man  may,  he  fought  his  fight, 

Proved  his  truth  by  his  endeavor  ; 
Let  him  sleep  in  solemn  night, 
Sleep  forever  and  forever. 

Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow  ! 
What  cares  he  ?  he  cannot  know  : 
Lay  him  low  ! 

Fold  him  in  his  country's  stars, 

Roll  the  drum  and  fire  the  volley  ! 
What  to  him  are  all  our  wars, 

What  but  death  bemocking  folly  ? 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow  ! 
What  cares  he  ?  he  cannot  know  : 
Lay  him  low  ! 

Leave  him  to  God's  watching  eye, 

Trust  him  to  the  hand  that  made  him. 
Mortal  love  weeps  idly  by  : 

God  alone  has  power  to  aid  him. 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow  ! 
What  cares  he  ?  he  cannot  know-' 
Lay  him  low  ! 

GEORGE  H.  BOKER. 


MALVERN  HILL. 
i,  1862.] 


WAS  there  ever  message  sweeter 

Than  that  one  from  Malvern  Hill, 
From  a  grim  old  fellow  —  you  remember? 

Dying  in  the  dark  at  Malvern  Hill. 
With  his  rough  face  turned  a  little, 

On  a  heap  of  scarlet  sand, 
They  found  him,  just  within  the  thicket, 

With  a  picture  in  his  hand,— 

With  a  stained  and  crumpled  picture 

Of  a  woman's  aged  face  ; 
Yet  there  seemed  to  leap  a  wild  entreaty, 

Young  and  living  —  tender  —  from  the  face 
When  they  flashed  the  lantern  on  it, 

Gilding  all  the  purple  shade, 
And  stooped  to  raise  him  softly,  — 

"  That's  my  mother,  sir,"  he  said. 

"  Tell  her  "  —  but  he  wandered,  slipping 

Into  tangled  words  and  cries  — 
Something  about  Mac  and  Hooker, 

Something  dropping  through  the  cries 
About  the  kitten  by  the  fire, 

And  mother's  cranberry-pies  ,  and  there 
The  words  fell,  and  an  utter 

Silence  brooded  in  the  air. 

Just  as  he  was  drifting  from  them, 

Out  into  the  dark,  alone, 
(Poor  old  mother,  waiting  for  your  message, 

Waiting  with  the  kitten,  all  alone  !) 
Through  the  hush  his  voice  broke  :  "  Tell  her- 

Thank  you,  Doctor  —  when  you  can, 
Tell  her  that  I  kissed  her  picture, 

And  wished  I'd  been  a  better  man." 


m 


Ah,  I  wonder  if  the  red  feet 

Of  departed  battle-hours 
May  not  leave  for  us  their  searching 

Message  from  those  distant  hours. 
Sisters,  daughters,  mothers,  think  you, 

Would  your  heroes,  now  or  then, 
Dying,  kiss  your  pictured  faces, 

Wishing  they'd  been  better  men  ? 

ELIZABETH  STUART  PHELPS. 


THREE  HUNDRED  THOUSAND  MORE. 

\In  answer  to  President  Lincoln's  ca//,   issued  July  2, 
1862,  for  300,000  additional  men,  to  serve  three  years.] 

WE  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hundred 

thousand  more, 
From  Mississippi's  winding  stream  and  from  New 

England's  shore ; 
We  leave  our  ploughs   and  workshops,  our  wives 

and  children  dear, 
With  hearts  too  full  for  utterance,  with  but  a  silent 

tear ; 

We  dare  not  look  behind  us,  but  steadfastly  before  : 
We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hundred 

thousand  more  ! 

If  you    look    across  the   hill-tops   that    meet    the 

northern  sky, 
Long  moving  lines  of  rising  dust  your  vision  may 

descry ; 
And    now  the  wind,  an  instant,  tears   the  cloudy 

veil  aside, 
And  floats  aloft  our  spangled  flag  in  glory  and  in 

pride, 
And  bayonets  in  the    sunlight    gleam,  and   bands 

brave  music  pour : 
We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hundred 

thousand  more  1 


112 


II  you  look  all  up  our  valleys  where  the  growing 
harvests  shine, 

You  may  see  our  sturdy  farmer  boys  fast  form 
ing  into  line ; 

And  children  from  their  mother's  knees  are  pull 
ing  at  the  weeds, 

And  learning  how  to  reap  and  sow  against  their 
country's  needs ; 

And  a  farewell  group  stands  weeping  at  every  cot 
tage  door : 

We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hundred 
thousand  more ! 

You  have  called  us,  and  we're  coming,  by  Rich 
mond's  bloody  tide 

To  lay  us  down,  for  Freedom's  sake,  our  brothers' 
bones  beside, 

Or  from  foul  treason's  savage  grasp  to  wrench  the 
murderous  blade, 

And  in  the  face  of  foreign  foes  its  fragments  to 
parade. 

Six  hundred  thousand  loyal  men  and  true  have 
gone  before : 

We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hundred 
thousand  more ! 

ANONYMOUS. 


OUR  PRIVILEGE. 

\Owing  to  the  remoteness  of  California  from  the  scenes 
of  the  war,  and  the  difficulty  of  transporting  troops,  that 
State  sent  but  eleven  regiments  to  the  field ;  although  it  is 
probable  that  many  Californians  joined  organizai^ons  from 
other  States  and  Territories,  or  enlisted  in  the  regular 
army.] 

NOT  ours,  where  battle-smoke  upcurls, 

And  battle-dews  lie  wet, 
To  meet  the  charge  that  treason  hurls 

By  sword  and  bayonet ; 


113 


Not  ours  to  guide  the  fatal  scythe 

The  fleshless  Reaper  wields  ; 
The  harvest-moon  looks  calmly  down 

Upon  our  peaceful  fields. 

The  long  grass  dimples  on  the  hill, 

The  pines  sing  by  the  sea, 
And  Plenty,  from  her  golden  horn, 

Is  pouring  far  and  free. 

O  brothers  by  the  farther  sea  ! 

Think  still  our  faith  is  warm ; 
The  same  bright  flag  above  us  waves 

That  swathed  our  baby  form. 

The  same  red  blood  that  dyes  your  fields 

Here  throbs  in  patriot  pride  ; 
The  blood  that  flowed  where  Lander  fell, 

And  Baker's  crimson  tide. 

And  thus  apart  our  hearts  keep  time 

With  every  pulse  ye  feel ; 
And  Mercy's  ringing  gold  shall  chime 

With  Valor's  clashing  steel. 

BRET  HARTE. 


THE  VOLUNTEER. 

"  AT  dawn,"  he  said,  "  I  bid  them  all  farewell, 
To  go  where  bugles  call  and  rifles  gleam." 
And  with  the  restless  thought,  asleep  he  fell 
And  glided  into  dream. 

A  great  hot  plain  from  sea  to  mountain  spread- 
Through  it  a  level  river  slowly  drawn  ; 
He  moved  with  a  vast  crowd,  and  at  its  head 
Streamed  banners  like  the  dawn. 


There  came  a  blinding  flash,  a  deafening  roar — 
And  dissonant  cries  of  triumph  and  dismay  ; 
Blood  trickled  down  the  river's  reedy  shore, 
And  with  the  dead  he  lay. 

The  morn  broke  in  upon  his  solemn  dreams, 

And  still,  with  steady  pulse  and  deepening  eye, 
"  Where  bugles  call,"  he  said,  "  and  rifles  gleam, 
I  follow,  though  I  die ! " 

Wise  youth  !    By  few  is  glory's  wreath  attained ; 

But  death,  or  late  or  soon,  awaiteth  all. 
To  fight  in  Freedom's  cause  is  something  gained- 
And  nothing  lost,  to  fall. 

ELBRIDGE  JEFFERSON  CUTLER. 


THE  BURIAL  OF  LATAN& 

\Captain  Latani,  of  Stuarf  s  Confederate  Cavalry,  fell, 
at  the  head  of  his  squadron,  in  the  Pamunkey  expedition, 
in  Virginia,  in  1862.  A  private  letter,  written  at  the  time, 
thus  describes  his  burial :  "A  few  ladies,  a  /air-haired 
little  girl  with  her  apron  filled  with  white  flowers,  and 
a  fevj  faithful  slaves,  stood  reverently  near  while  a  pious 
Virginia  matron  read  the  solemn  and  beautiful  burial 
service  for  the  dead.  "J 

THE  combat  raged  not  long,  but  ours  the  day ; 

And,  through  the  hosts  that  compassed  us  around, 
Our  little  band  rode  proudly  on  its  way, 

Leaving  one  gallant  comrade,  glory-crowned, 
Unburied  on  the  field  he  died  to  gain — 
Single  of  all  his  men,  amid  the  hostile  slain. 

One  moment  on  the  battle's  edge  he  stood — 
Hope's  halo,  like  a  helmet,  round  his  hair; 

The  next  beheld  him,  dabbled  in  his  blood, 
Prostrate  in  death — and  yet,  in  death  how  fair  J 


115 


Even  thus  he  passed  through  the  red  gates  of 
strife, 

From  earthly  crowns  and  palms,  to  an  immor 
tal  life. 

A  brother  bore  his  body  from  the  field, 

And  gave  it  unto  strangers'  hands,  that  closed 
The  calm  blue  eyes,  on  earth  forever  sealed, 
And  tenderly  the  slender  limbs  composed  : 
Strangers,  yet  sisters,  who,  with  Mary's  love, 
Sat  by  the  open  tomb,  and,  weeping,  looked 
above. 

A  little  child  strewed  roses  on  his  bier — 

Pale  roses,  not  more  stainless  than  his  soul, 
Nor  yet  more  fragrant  than  his  life  sincere, 

That   blossomed  with  good  actions  —  brief,  but 

whole : 

The  aged  matron  and  the  faithful  slave 
Approached,  with    reverent    feet,    the    hero's 
lowly  grave. 

No  man  of  God  might  say  the  burial  rite 

Above  the  "  rebel  " — thus  declared  the  foe 
That  blanched  before  him  in  the  deadly  fight ; 
But  woman's  voice,  with  accents  soft  and  low, 
Trembling  with  pity — touched  with  pathos — 

read 
Over  his  hallowed  dust  the  ritual  for  the  dead. 

"  '  Tis  sown  in  weakness,  it  is  raised  in  power  /" 

Softly  the  promise  floated  on  the  air, 
While  the  low  breathings  of  the  sunset  hour 
Came  back  responsive  to  the  mourner's  prayer. 
Gently  they  laid  him  underneath  the  sod, 
And  left  him  with  his  fame,  his  country,  and 
his  God ! 

Let  us  not  weep  for  him,  whose  deeds  endure ! 
So  young,  so  brave,  so  beautiful !    He  died 


lie 


As  he  had  wished  to  die  ;  the  past  is  sure ; 
Whatever  yet  of  sorrow  may  betide 

Those  who  still  linger  by  the  stormy  shore, 
Change  cannot  harm  him   now,   nor    fortune 
touch  him  more. 

JOHN  R.  THOMPSON. 


KILLED  AT  THE  FORD. 

HE  is  dead,  the  beautiful  youth, 

The  heart  of  honor,  the  tongue  of  truth — 

He,  the  life  and  light  of  us  all, 

Whose  voice  was  blithe  as  a  bugle-call, 

Whom  all  eyes  followed  with  one  consent, 

The  cheer  of  whose  laugh  and  whose  pleasant  word 

Hushed  all  murmurs  of  discontent. 

Only  last  night,  as  we  rode  along 

Down  the  dark  of  the  mountain  gap, 

To  visit  the  picket-guard  at  the  ford, 

Little  dreaming  of  any  mishap, 

He  was  humming  the  words  of  some  old  song : 

"  Two  red  roses  he  had  on  his  cap, 

And  another  he  bore  at  the  point  of  his  sword." 

Sudden  and  swift,  a  whistling  ball 
Came  out  of  a  wood,  and  the  voice  was  still ; 
Something  I  heard  in  the  darkness  fall, 
And  for  a  moment  my  blood  grew  chill; 
I  spake  in  a  whisper,  as  he  who  speaks 
In  a  room  where  some  one  is  lying  dead ; 
But  he  made  no  answer  to  what  I  said. 

We  lifted  him  up  on  his  saddle  again, 

And  through  the  mire  and  the  mist  and  the  rain 

Carried  him  back  to  the  silent  camp, 

And  laid  him  as  if  asleep  on  his  bed  ; 

And  I  saw  by  the  light  of  the  surgeon's  lamp 


iir 


Two  white  roses  upon  his  cheeks, 
And  one,  just  over  his  heart,  blood-red. 

And  I  saw  in  a  vision  how  far  and  fleet 
That  fatal  bullet  went  speeding  forth, 
Till  it  reached  a  town  in  the  distant  North, 
Till  it  reached  a  house  in  a  sunny  street, 
Till  it  reached  a  heart  that  ceased  to  beat, 
Without  a  murmur,  without  a  cry  ; 
And  a  bell  was  tolled  in  that  far-off  town 
For  one  who  had  passed  from  cross  to  crown ; 
And  the  neighbors  wondered  that  she  should  die. 
HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  WIFE. 

WE  gathered  roses,  Blanche  and  I,  for  little  Madge 

one  morning ; 
"  Like  every  soldier's  wife,"  said  Blanche,"  I  dread 

a  soldier's  fate." 
Her  voice  a  little  trembled   then,   as  under  some 

forewarning.  .  .  . 

A  soldier  galloped  up  the  lane,  and  halted  at  the 
gate. 

"  Which  house  is  Malcolm  Blake's  ?"  he  cried ;  "  a 

letter  for  his  sister  !" 
And  when  I  thanked  him,  Blanche  inquired,  "  But 

none  for  me,  his  wife  ?" 

The  soldier  played  with  Madge's  curls,  and,  stoop 
ing  over,  kissed  her : 

"  Your  father  was  my  captain,  child ! — I   loved 
him  as  my  life  !" 

Then  suddenly  he  galloped  off  and  left  the  rest  un 
spoken. 

I  burst  the  seal,  and  Blanche  exclaimed,  "  What 
makes  you  tremble  so  ?" 


What  answer  did  I  dare  to  speak  ?     How  ought 

the  news  be  broken  ? 

I  could  not  shield  her  from  the  stroke,  yet  tried 
to  ease  the  blow. 

"  A  battle  in  the  swamps,"  I  said  ;  "  our  men  were 

brave,  but  lost  it." 
And,  pausing  there — "  The  note,"  I  said,  "  is  not 

in  Malcolm's  hand." 
And  first  a  flush  flamed  through  her  face,  and  then 

a  shadow  crossed  it. 

"  Read  quick,  dear  May  ! — read  all,  I  pray — and 
let  me  understand !" 

I  did  not  read  it  as  it  stood — but  tempered  so  the 

phrases 
As  not  at  first  to  hint  the  worst — held  back  the 

fatal  word, 
And  half  retold  his  gallant  charge,  his  shout,  his 

comrades'  praises — 

Till    like   a  statue  carved  in  stone,  she  neither 
spoke  nor  stirred ! 

Oh,  never  yet  a  woman's  heart  was  frozen  so  com 
pletely  ! 

So  unbaptized  with  helping  tears .' — so  passion 
less  and  dumb ! 
Spellbound    she  stood,   and    motionless — till  little 

Madge  spoke  sweetly : 

"  Dear  mother,  is  the  battle  done  ?  and  will  my 
father  come  ?" 

I  laid  my  finger  on  her  lips,  and  set  the  child  to 

playing. 
Poor    Blanche !    the  winter  in  her  cheek   was 

snowy  like  her  name  ! 

What  could  she  do  but  kneel  and  pray — and  lin 
ger  at  her  praying  ?  .  .  .  . 

O   Christ !  when   other  heroes  die,  moan  other 
wives  the  same  ? 


na 


Must  other  women's  hearts  yet  break,  to  keep  the 

Cause  from  failing  ? 
God  pity   our   brave  lovers,  then,  who  face  the 

battle's  blaze  ! 

And  pity  wives  in  widowhood  ! — But  is  it  unavail 
ing  ? 

O  Lord  !  give   Freedom  first,  then  Peace ! — and 
unto  Thee  be  praise  ! 

THEODORE  TILTON. 


"  OUR  LEFT." 
[Manassas,  August  30,  1862.] 

FROM  dawn  to  dark  they  stood 
That  long  midsummer  day, 

While  fierce  and  fast 

The  battle  blast 
Swept  rank  on  rank  away. 

From  dawn  to  dark  they  fought, 
With  legions  torn  and  cleft ; 

And  still  the  wide 

Black  battle  tide 
Poured  deadlier  on  "  Our  Left." 

They  closed  each  ghastly  gap  ; 
They  dressed  each  shattered  rank ; 

They  knew — how  well — 

That  freedom  fell 
With  that  exhausted  flank. 

"  Oh,  for  a  thousand  men 
Like  these  that  melt  away!" 

And  down  they  came, 

With  steel  and  flame, 
Four  thousand  to  the  fray  1 


Right  through  the  blackest  cloud 
Their  lightning  path  they  cleft ; 

And  triumph  came 

With  deathless  fame 
To  our  unconquered  "  Left." 

Ye  of  your  sons  secure, 
Ye  of  your  dead  bereft — 
Honor  the  brave 
Who  died  to  save 
Your  all  upon  "  Our  Left." 

FRANCIS  O.  TICKNOR 


WANTED A  MAN. 

[This poem  so  impressed  President  Lincoln,  that  he  read 
it  to  his  Cabinet  at  the  crisis  referred  to,  in  1862,  when 
the  great  want  of  the  North  was  a  fit  leader  for  its  armies.} 

BACK  from  the  trebly  crimsoned  field 

Terrible  words  are  thunder-tost ; 
Full  of  the  wrath  that  will  not  yield, 

Full  of  revenge  for  battles  lost ! 

Hark  to  their  echo,  as  it  crost 
The  Capital,  making  faces  wan  ; 

"  End  this  murderous  holocaust ; 
Abraham  Lincoln,  give  us  a  MAN  ! 

"  Give  us  a  man  of  God's  own  mould, 

Born  to  marshal  his  fellow-men  ; 
One  whose  fame  is  not  bought  and  sold 

At  the  stroke  of  a  politician's  pen  ; 

Give  us  the  man  of  thousands  ten. 
Fit  to  do  as  well  as  to  plan  ; 

Give  us  a  rallying-cry,  and  then, 
Abraham  Lincoln,  give  us  a  MAN  I 


121 


"  No  leader  to  shirk  the  boasting  foe, 

And  to  march  and  countermarch  our  brave, 

Till  they  fall  like  ghosts  in  the  marshes  low, 

And  swamp-grass  covers  each  nameless  grave  : 
Nor  another,  whose  fatal  banners  wave 

Aye  in  Disaster's  shameful  van  ; 

Nor  another,  to  bluster,  and  lie,  and  rave,  — 

Abraham  Lincoln,  give  us  a  MAN  ! 

"  Hearts  are  mourning  in  the  North, 

While  the  sister  rivers  seek  the  main, 
Red  with  our  life-blood  flowing  forth  — 

Who  shall  gather  it  up  again  ? 

Though  we  march  to  the  battle-plain 
Firmly  as  when  the  strife  began, 

Shall  all  our  offering  be  in  vain  ?  — 
Abraham  Lincoln,  give  us  a  MAN  ! 

"  Is  there  never  one  in  all  the  land, 

One  on  whose  might  the  Cause  may  lean  ? 
Are  all  the  common  ones  so  grand, 

And  all  the  titled  ones  so  mean  ? 

What  if  your  failure  may  have  been 
In  trying  to  make  good  bread  from  bran, 

From  worthless  metal  a  weapon  keen  ?- 
Abraham  Lincoln,  find  us  a  MAN  ! 

"  O,  we  will  follow  him  to  the  death, 

Where  the  foeman's  fiercest  columns  are  ! 
O,  we  will  use  our  latest  breath, 

Cheering  for  every  sacred  star  ! 

His  to  marshal  us  high  and  far  ; 
Ours  to  battle,  as  patriots  can 

When  a  Hero  leads  the  Holy  War  !  — 
Abraham  Lincoln,  give  us  a  MAN  !" 

EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN. 


122 


BEYOND  THE  POTOMAC. 

[Lee's  first  invasion  of  Maryland,  September,  1862.] 

THEY  slept  on  the  fields  which  their  valor  had  won, 
But  arose  with  the  first  early  blush  of  the  sun, 
For  they  knew  that  a  great  deed  remained  to  be  done, 
When  they  passed  o'er  the  river. 

They  rose  with  the  sun,  and  caught  life  from  his 

light  — 

Those  giants  of  courage,  those  Anaks  in  fight  — 
And  they  laughed  out  aloud  in  the  joy  of  their  might, 
Marching  swift  for  the  river. 

On  !  on  !  like  the  rushing  of  storms  thro*  the  hills  — 
On  !  on  !  with  a  tramp  that  is  firm  as  their  wills  — 
And  the  one  heart  of  thousands  grows  buoyant, 
and  thrills, 

At  the  thought  of  the  river  ! 

Oh,  the  sheen  of  their  swords  !  the  fierce  gleam  of 

their  eyes  ! 

It  seemed  as  on  earth  a  new  sunlight  would  rise, 
And  king-like  flash  up  to  the  sun  in  the  skies, 
O'er  the  path  to  the  river. 

But  their  banners,  shot-scarred,  and  all  darkened 

with  gore, 
On  a  strong  wind  of  morning  streamed  wildly  be 

fore, 
Like  the  wings  of  death-angels  swept  fast  to  the 

shore, 

The  green  shore  of  the  river  ! 

As  they  march  from  the  hillside,  the  hamlet,  the 

stream, 
Gaunt  throngs  whom  the  foeman  had  manacled. 

teem, 

Like  men  just  aroused  from  some  terrible  dream, 
To  pass  over  the  river. 


123 


They  behold  the  broad  banners,  blood-darkened, 

yet  fair, 

And  a  moment  dissolves  the  last  spell  of  despair, 
While  a  peal  as  of  victory  swells  on  the  air, 
Rolling  out  to  the  river. 

And  that  cry,  with   a  thousand  strange  echoings 

spread, 

Till  the  ashes  of  heroes  seemed  stirred  in  their  bed, 
And  the  deep  voice  of  passion  surged  up  from  the 
dead — 

Aye  !  press  on  to  the  river ! 

On  !  on !  like  the  rushing  of  storms  through  the 

hills, 

On  !  on  !  with  a  tramp  that  is  firm  as  their  wills, 
And  the  one  heart  of  thousands  grows  buoyant, 

and  thrills, 

As  they  pause  by  the  river. 

Then  the  wan  face  of  Maryland,  haggard  and  worn, 
At  that  sight  lost  the  touch  of  its  aspect  forlorn, 
And  she  turned  on   the   foeman   full   statured  in 
scorn, 

Pointing  stern  to  the  river. 

And  Potomac  flowed  calm,  scarcely  heaving  her 

breast, 

With  her  low-lying  billows  all  bright  in  the  west, 
For  a  charm  as  from  God  lulled  the  waters  to  rest 
Of  the  fair  rolling  river. 

Passed  !  passed  I   the  glad  thousands  march  safe 

through  the  tide. 
(Hark,  despot !  and  hear  the  dread  knell  of  your 

pride, 

Ringing  weird-like  and  wild,  pealing  up  from  the  side 
Of  the  calm  flowing  river  !) 


124 


'Neath  a  blow  swift  and  mighty  the  tyrant  may  fall, 
Vain  !  vain  !  to  his  God  swells  a  desolate  call.. 
For  his  grave  has  been  hollowed,  and  woven  his  pall, 
Since  they  passed  o'er  the  river  ! 

PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE. 


BARBARA  FRIETCHIE. 

[The  incidents  which  gave  rise  to  this  poem  are  said  to 
have  occurred  during  Stonewall  Jackson' s  march  through 
Frederick  City,  Maryland,  just  before  the  battle  of  South 
Mountain,  in  September,  1862.  Some  of  the  facts  narrated 
having  been  called  in  question,  Mr.  Whittier  has  furnished 
the  editor  of  this  volume  (November  15,  1885)  with  the  fol 
lowing  particulars  :  "  Of  the  substantial  truth  of  the 
heroism  of  Barbara  Frietchie  I  can  have  no  doubt.  Mrs. 
E.  D.  N.  Southworth,  the  novelist,  of  Washington,  sent  me 
a  slip  from  a  newspaper,  stating  the  circumstance  as  it  is 
given  in  the  poem,  and  assured  me  of  its  substantial  cor 
rectness.  Dorothea  L.  Dix,  the  philanthropic  worker  in 
the  Union  hospitals,  confirmed  it.  From  half  a  dozen 
other  sources  I  had  the  account,  and  all  agree  in  the  main 
facts.  Barbara  Frietchie  was  the  boldest  and  most  out 
spoken  Unionist  in  Frederick,  and  manifested  it  to  the 
Rebel  army  in  an  unmistakable  manner."} 

UP  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn, 
Clear  in  the  cool  September  morn, 

The  clustered  spires  of  Frederick  stand 
Green-walled  by  the  hills  of  Maryland. 

Round  about  them  orchards  sweep, 
Apple  and  peach  tree  fruited  deep, 

Fair  as  a  garden  of  the  Lord 

To  the  eyes  of  the  famished  rebel  horde, 

On  that  pleasant  morn  of  the  early  fall 
When  Lee  marched  over  the  mountain  wall — 


125 


Over  the  mountains,  winding  down, 
Horse  and  foot  into  Frederick  town. 

Forty  flags  with  their  silver  stars, 
Forty  flags  with  their  crimson  bars, 

Flapped  in  the  morning  wind  :  the  sun 
Of  noon  looked  down,  and  saw  not  one. 

Up  rose  old  Barbara  Frietchie  then, 
Bowed  with  her  fourscore  years  and  ten  ; 

Bravest  of  all  in  Frederick  town, 

She  took  up  the  flag  the  men  hauled  down  ; 

In  her  attic  window  the  staff  she  set, 
To  show  that  one  heart  was  loyal  yet. 

Up  the  street  came  the  rebel  tread, 
Stonewall  Jackson  riding  ahead. 

Under  his  slouched  hat  left  and  right 
He  glanced  :  the  old  flag  met  his  sight. 

"  Halt !" — the  dust-brown  ranks  stood  fast ; 
"  Fire  !" — out  blazed  the  rifle-blast. 

It  shivered  the  window,  pane  and  sash  ; 
It  rent  the  banner  with  seam  and  gash. 

Quick,  as  it  fell,  from  the  broken  staff 
Dame  Barbara  snatched  the  silken  scarf ; 

She  leaned  far  out  on  the  window-sill, 
And  shook  it  forth  with  a  royal  will. 

"  Shoot,  if  you  must,  this  old  gray  head, 
But  spare  your  country's  flag,"  she  said. 

A  shade  of  sadness,  a  blush  of  shame, 
Over  the  face  of  the  leader  came  ; 

The  nobler  nature  within  him  stirred 
To  life  at  that  woman's  deed  and  word 


120 


"  Who  touches  a  hair  of  yon  gray  head 
Dies  like  a  dog  !     March  on  !"  he  said. 

All  day  long  through  Frederick  street 
Sounded  the  tread  of  marching  feet  ; 

All  day  long  that  free  flag  tost 
Over  the  heads  of  the  rebel  host. 

Ever  its  torn  folds  rose  and  fell 

On  the  loyal  winds  that  loved  it  well  ; 

And  through  the  hill-gaps  sunset  light 
Shone  over  it  with  a  warm  good-night. 

Barbara  Frietchie's  work  is  o'er, 

And  the  Rebel  rides  on  his  raids  no  more. 

Honor  to  her  !  and  let  a  tear 

Fall,  for  her  sake,  on  Stonewall's  bier. 

Over  Barbara  Frietchie's  grave, 
Flag  of  Freedom  and  Union,  wave  ! 

Peace  and  order  and  beauty  draw 
Round  thy  symbol  of  light  and  law  ; 

And  ever  the  stars  above  look  down 
On  thy  stars  below  in  Frederick  town  ! 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  WAR. 

PEACE  in  the  clover-scented  air, 

And  stars  within  the  dome ; 
And  underneath,  in  dim  repose, 

A  plain  New  England  home. 
Within,  a  murmur  of  low  tones 

And  sighs  from  hearts  oppressed, 
Merging  in  prayer  at  last,  that  brings 

The  balm  of  silent  rest. 


127 


"I've  closed  a  hard  day's  work,  Marty, 

The  evening  chores  are  done  ; 
And  you  are  weary  with  the  house, 

And  with  the  little  one. 
But  he  is  sleeping  sweetly  now, 

With  all  our  pretty  brood ; 
So  come  and  sit  upon  my  knee, 

And  it  will  do  me  good. 

"  Oh,  Marty  !  I  must  tell  you  all 

The  trouble  in  my  heart, 
And  you  must  do  the  most  you  can 

To  take  and  bear  your  part. 
You've  seen  the  shadow  on  my  face, 

You've  felt  it  day  and  night ; 
For  it  has  fill'd  our  little  home. 

And  banished  all  its  light. 

"  I  did  not  mean  it  should  be  so, 

And  yet  I  might  have  known 
That  hearts  that  live  as  close  as  ours 

Can  never  keep  their  own. 
But  we  are  fallen  on  evil  times, 

And,  do  whate'er  I  may, 
My  heart  grows  sad  about  the  war, 

And  sadder  every  day. 

"  I  think  about  it  when  I  work, 

And  when  I  try  to  rest, 
And  never  more  than  when  your  head 

Is  pillowed  on  my  breast ; 
For  then  I  see  the  camp-fires  blaze, 

And  sleeping  men  around, 
Who  turn  their  faces  toward  their  homes, 

And  dream  upon  the  ground. 

"I  think  about  the  dear, brave  boys, 

My  mates  in  other  years, 
Who  pine  for  home  and  those  they  love, 
Till  I  am  choked  with  tears. 


120 


With  shouts  and  cheers  they  marched  away 

On  glory's  shining  track  ; 
But,  ah  !  how  long,  how  long  they  stay,  — 

How  few  of  them  come  back  ! 

"  One  sleeps  beside  the  Tennessee, 

And  one  beside  the  James, 
And  one  fought  on  a  gallant  ship 

And  perished  in  its  flames. 
And  some,  struck  down  by  fell  disease, 

Are  breathing  out  their  life  ; 
And  others,  maimed  by  cruel  wounds, 

Have  left  the  deadly  strife. 

"Ah,  Marty!  Marty!  only  think 

Of  all  the  boys  have  done 
And  suffered  in  this  weary  war,  — 

Brave  heroes,  every  one  ! 
Oh,  often,  often,  in  the  night, 

I  hear  their  voices  call  : 
'  Come  on  and  help  us  !  Is  it  right 
That  we  should  bear  it  all  f  ' 

"And  when  I  kneel  and  try  to  pray, 

My  thoughts  are  never  free, 
But  cling  to  those  who  toil  and  fight 

And  die  for  you  and  me. 
And  when  I  pray  for  victory, 

It  seems  almost  a  sin 
To  fold  my  hands  and  ask  for  what 

I  will  not  help  to  win. 

"  Oh,  do  not  cling  to  me  and  cry, 

For  it  will  break  my  heart  ; 
I'm  sure  you'd  rather  have  me  die 

Than  not  to  bear  my  part. 
You  think  that  some  should  stay  at  home 

To  care  for  those  away  ; 
But  still  I'm  helpless  to  decide 

If  I  should  go  or  stay. 


"  For,  Marty,  all  the  soldiers  love, 

And  all  are  loved  again  ; 
And  I  am  loved,  and  love,  perhaps, 

No  more  than  other  men. 
I  cannot  tell — I  do  not  know — 

Which  way  my  duty  lies, 
Or  where  the  Lord  would  have  me  build 

My  fire  of  sacrifice. 

"  I  feel — I  know — I  am  not  mean ; 

And  though  I  seem  to  boast, 
I'm  sure  that  I  would  give  my  life 

To  those  who  need  it  most. 
Perhaps  the  Spirit  will  reveal 

That  which  is  fair  and  right ; 
So,  Marty,  let  us  humbly  kneel 

And  pray  to  Heaven  for  light.".  .  . 

Peace  in  the  clover-scented  air, 

And  stars  within  the  dome ; 
And,  underneath,  in  dim  repose, 

A  plain  New  England  home. 
Within,  a  widow  in  her  weeds 

From  whom  all  joy  is  flown, 
Who  kneels  among  her  sleeping  babes, 

And  weeps  and  prays  alone  ! 

JOSIAH  GILBERT  HOLLAND. 


CLARIBEL'S   PRAYER. 

THE  day,  with  cold  gray  feet,  clung  shivering  to 

the  hills, 

While  o'er  the  valley  still  night's  rain-fringed  cur 
tains  fell ; 
But  waking  Blue-eyes  smiled :  "  'Tis  ever  as  God 

wills ; 

He  knoweth  best,  and  be  it  rain  or  shine,  'tis  well  ; 
Praise  God  !"  cried  always  little  Claribel. 


130 


Then  sunk  she  on  her  knees  ;    with  eager,  lifted 

hands 
Her  rosy  lips  made  haste  some  dear  request  to 

tell: 

"  O  Father,  smile,  and  save  this  fairest  of  all  lauds, 
And  make  her  free,  whatever  hearts  rebel ; 
Amen !   Praise  God  !"  cried  little  Claribel. 

"  And,  Father,"  still  arose  another  pleading  prayer, 
"  O  save  my  brother,  in  the  rain  of  shot  and  shell ! 

Let  not  the  death-bolt,  with  its  horrid  streaming 

hair, 

Dash  light  from  those  sweet  eyes  I  love  so  well ; 
Amen !  Praise  God  !"  wept  little  Claribel. 

"  But,  Father,  grant  that  when  the  glorious  fight  is 

done, 
And  up  the  crimson  sky  the  shouts  of  freemen 

swell, 

Grant  that  there  be  no  nobler  victor  'neath  the  sun 
Than  he  whose  golden  hair  I  love  so  well ; 
Amen  !  Praise  God  !"  cned  little  Claribel. 

When  the  gray  and  dreary  day  shook  hands  with 

grayer  night, 

The  heavy  air  was  rilled  with  clangor  of  a  bell ; 
"  Oh,   shout !"   the   Herald   cried,   his  worn   eyes 

brimmed  with  light ; 

"  'Tis  victory  !     Oh,  what  glorious  news  to  tell !" 
"  Praise  God  !     He  heard  my  prayer,"  cried  Clar 
ibel. 

"But  pray  you,  soldier,  was  my  brother  in  the  fight 
And  in  the  fiery  rain  ?     Oh,  fought  he  brave  and 

well?" 
"  Dear  child,"   the   Herald  said,   "  there  was  no 

braver  sight 
Than  his  young  form,  so  grand  'mid  shot   and 

shell ;" 
"  Praise  God  1"  cried  trembling  little  Claribel. 


"  And  rides  he  now  with  victor's  plume  of  red, 
While  trumpets'  golden  throats  his  coming  steps 

foretell  ?" 
The  Herald  dropped   a  tear.      "  Dear  child,"  he 

softly  said, 
"Thy  brother  evermore  with   conquerors   shall 

dwell." 

"  Praise  God  !     He  heard  my  prayer,"  cried  Clar- 
ibel. 

"  With  victors,  wearing  crowns  and  bearing  palms," 

he  said, 

And  snow  of  sudden  fear  upon  the  rose  lips  fell ; 
"  Oh,  sweetest  Herald,  say  my  brother  lives  !"  she 

plead ; 
*'  Dear    child,  he    walks    with    angels,   who    in 

strength  excel ; 
Praise  God,  who  gave  this  glory,  Claribel." 

The  cold  gray  day  died  sobbing  on  the  weary  hills, 
While  bitter  mourning  on  the  night  winds  rose 

and  fell. 
"  O  child,"  the  Herald  wept,  "  'tis  as  the  dear  Lord 

wills  ; 

He  knoweth  best,  and  be  it  life  or  death,  'tis  well." 
"  Amen  !  Praise  God !"  sobbed  little  Claribel. 

M.  L.  PARMELEE. 


"  PICCIOLA." 

IT  was  a  sergeant  old  and  gray, 

Well  singed  and  bronzed  from  siege  and  pillage. 
Went  tramping  in  an  army's  wake, 

Along  the  turnpike  of  the  village. 

For  days  and  nights  the  winding  host 

Had  through  the  little  place  been  marching, 

And  ever  loud  the  rustics  cheered, 

Till  every  throat  was  hoarse  and  parching. 


132 


The  squire  and  farmer,  maid  and  dame, 
All  took  the  sight's  electric  stirring, 

And  hats  were  waved,  and  staves  were  sung, 
And  'kerchiefs  white  were  countless  whirling 

They  only  saw  a  gallant  show 
Of  heroes  stalwart  under  banners, 

And  in  the  fierce  heroic  glow 

'Twas  theirs  to  yield  but  wild  hosannahs. 

The  sergeant  heard  the  shrill  hurrahs, 
Where  he  behind  in  step  was  keeping  ; 

But  glancing  down  beside  the  road 
He  saw  a  little  maid  sit  weeping. 

"And  how  is  this  ?"  he  gruffly  said, 
A  moment  pausing  to  regard  her ; 

"  Why  weepest  thou,  my  little  chit  ?" 
And  then  she  only  cried  the  harder. 

"  And  how  is  this,  my  little  chit  ?" 

The  sturdy  trooper  straight  repeated — 

"  When  all  the  village  cheers  us  on, 
That  you,  in  tears,  apart  are  seated  ? 

"  We  march  two  hundred  thousand  strong! 

And  that's  a  sight,  my  baby  beauty, 
To  quicken  silence  into  song, 

And  glorify  the  soldier's  duty." 

"  It's  very,  very  grand,  I  know," 
The  little  maid  gave  soft  replying; 

"  And  father,  mother,  brother,  too, 
All  say  '  hurrah  '  while  I  am  crying. 

"  But  think— O  Mr.  Soldier,  think 

How  many  little  sisters'  brothers 
Are  going  all  away  to  fight, 

Who  may  be  killed,  as  well  as  others  !" 


M  Why,  bless  thee,  child,"  the  sergeant  said, 
His  brawny  hand  her  curls  caressing, 

"  'Tis  left  for  little  ones  like  you 

To  find  that  war's  not  all  a  blessing." 

And  "  bless  thee  \"  once  again  he  cried  ; 

Then  cleared  his  throat  and  looked  indignant 
And  marched  away  with  wrinkled  brow 

To  stop  the  straggling  tear  benignant. 

And  still  the  ringing  shouts  went  up 

From  doorway,  thatch,  and  fields  of  tillage  , 

The  pall  behind  the  standard  seen 
By  one  alone,  of  all  the  village. 

The  oak  and  cedar  bend  and  writhe 

When  roars  the  wind  through  gap  and  braken  ; 
But  'tis  the  tenderest  reed  of  all 

That  trembles  first  when  earth  is  shaken. 

ANONYMOUS. 


COME  UP  FROM  THE  FIELDS,  FATHER. 

COME  up  from  the  fields,  father,  here's  a  letter  from 

our  Pete ; 
And  come  to  the  front  door,  mother,  here's  a  letter 

from  thy  dear  son. 

Lo,  'tis  autumn. 

Lo,  where  the  trees,  deeper  green,  yellower  and 
redder, 

Cool  and  sweeten  Ohio's  villages  with  leaves  flutter 
ing  in  the  moderate  wind, 

Where  apples  ripe  in  the  orchards  hang  and  grapes 
on  the  trellis'd  vines, 

(Smell  you  the  smell  of  the  grapes  on  the  vines  ? 

Smell  you  the  buckwheat  where  the  bees  were  lately 
buzzing  ?  ) 


134 


Above  all,  lo,  the  sky  so  calm,  so  transparent  after 
the  rain,  and  with  wondrous  clouds, 

Below  too,  all  calm,  all  vital  and  beautiful,  and 
the  farm  prospers  well. 

Down  in  the  fields  all  prospers  well  ; 

But  now  from  the  fields  come,  father,  come  at  the 

daughter's  call, 
And  come  to  the  entry,  mother,  to  the  front  door 

come  right  away. 

Fast  as  she  can  she  hurries,  something  ominous, 

her  steps  trembling, 
She  does  not  tarry  to  smooth  her  hair  nor  adjust 

her  cap. 

Open  the  envelope  quickly  ! 

O  this  is  not  our  son's  writing,  yet  his  name  is  sign'd, 

O  a  strange  hand  writes  for  our  dear  son.  O  stricken 

mother's  soul  ! 
All  swims  before  her  eyes,  flashes  with  black,  she 

catches  the  main  words  only, 
Sentences   broken,  gunshot  wound  in  the  breast, 

cavalry  skirmish,  taken  to  hospital, 
At  present  low,  but  will  soon  be  better. 

Ah,  now  the  single  figure  to  me, 

Amid  all  teeming  and  wealthy  Ohio,  with  all  its  cities 

and  farms, 
Sickly  white  in  the  face  and  dull  in  the  head,  very 

faint, 
By  the  jamb  of  a  door  leans. 

Grime  not  so,  dear  mother  (the  just-grown  daughter 

speaks  through  her  sobs, 
The  little  sisters  huddle  around  speechless  and  dis 

may  'd), 
See,  dearest  mother,  the  letter  says  Pete  will  SQQtl 

be  better  I 


135 


Alas !  poor  boy,  he  will  never  be  better  (nor  maybe 
needs  to  be  better,  that  brave  and  simple  soul), 

While  they  stand  at  home  at  the  door  he  is  dead 
already, 

The  only  son  is  dead. 

But  the  mother  needs  to  be  better, 

She  with  thin  form  presently  drest  in  black, 

By  day  her  meals  untouch'd,  then  at  night  fitfully 

sleeping,  often  waking, 
In  the  midnight  waking,  weeping,  longing  with  one 

deep  longing, 
O  that  she  might  withdraw  unnoticed,  silent  from 

life  escape  and  withdraw, 

To  follow,  to  seek,  to  be  with  her  dear  dead  son. 

WALT  WHITMAN. 


NOT  YET. 

O  COUNTRY,  marvel  of  the  earth  ! 

O  realm  to  sudden  greatness  grown  ! 
The  age  that  gloried  in  thy  birth, 

Shall  it  behold  thee  overthrown  ? 
Shall  traitors  lay  that  greatness  low  ? 
No,  land  of  Hope  and  Blessing,  No ! 

And  we  who  wear  thy  glorious  name, 
Shall  we,  like  cravens,  stand  apart, 

When  those  whom  thou  hast  trusted  aim 
The  death-blow  at  thy  generous  heart  ? 

Forth  goes  the  battle-cry,  and  lo  ! 

Hosts  rise  in  harness,  shouting,  No ! 

And  they  who  founded,  in  our  land, 
The  power  that  rules  from  sea  to  sea, 

Bled  they  in  vain,  or  vainly  planned 
To  leave  their  country  great  and  free  ? 

Their  sleeping  ashes,  from  below, 

Send  up  the  thrilling  murmur,  No! 


Knit  they  the  gentle  ties  which  long 
These  sister  States  were  proud  to  wear, 

And  forged  the  kindly  links  so  strong 
For  idle  hands  in  sport  to  tear — 

For  scornful  hands  aside  to  throw  ? 

No,  by  our  fathers'  memory,  No  ! 

Our  humming  marts,  our  iron  ways, 

Our  wind-tossed  woods  on  mountain  crest, 

The  hoarse  Atlantic,  with  his  bays, 
The  calm,  broad  Ocean  of  the  West, 

And  Mississippi's  torrent-flow, 

And  loud  Niagara,  answer,  No  ! 

Not  yet  the  hour  is  nigh  when  they 
Who  deep  in  Eld's  dim  twilight  sit, 

Earth's  ancient  kings,  shall  rise  and  say, 
"  Proud  country,  welcome  to  the  pit ! 

So  soon  art  thou,  like  us,  brought  low !" 

No,  sullen  groups  of  shadows,  No ! 

For  now,  behold,  the  arm  that  gave 

The  victory  in  our  fathers'  day, 
Strong,  as  of  old,  to  guard  and  save — 

That  mighty  arm  which  none  can  stay — 
On  clouds  above  and  fields  below, 
Writes,  in  men's  sight,  the  answer,  No ! 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 


THE  BATTLE  AUTUMN  OF  1862. 

THE  flags  of  war  like  storm-birds  fly, 
The  charging  trumpets  blow ; 

Yet  rolls  no  thunder  in  the  sky, 
No  earthquake  strives  below. 

And  calm  and  patient  Nature  keeps 
Her  ancient  promise  well, 


lugb-l-rljoea  137 


Though  o'er  her  bloom  and  greenness  sweeps 
The  battle's  breath  of  hell. 

And  still  she  walks  in  golden  hours 

Through  harvest-happy  farms, 
And  still  she  wears  her  fruits  and  flowers 

Like  jewels  on  her  arms. 

What  mean  the  gladness  of  the  plain, 

This  joy  of  eve  and  morn, 
The  mirth  that  shakes  the  beard  of  grain, 

And  yellow  locks  of  corn  ? 

Ah  !  eyes  may  well  be  full  of  tears, 

And  hearts  with  hate  are  hot ; 
But  even-paced  come  round  the  years, 

And  Nature  changes  not. 

She  meets  with  smiles  our  bitter  grief, 

With  songs  our  groans  of  pain  ; 
She  mocks  with  tint  of  flower  and  leaf 

The  war-field's  crimson  stain. 

Still  in  the  cannon's  pause  we  hear 

Her  sweet  thanksgiving  psalm  ; 
Too  near  to  God  for  doubt  or  fear, 

She  shares  the  eternal  calm. 

She  knows  the  seed  lies  safe  below 

The  fires  that  blast  and  burn  ; 
For  all  the  tears  of  blood  we  sow, 

She  waits  the  rich  return. 

She  sees,  with  clearer  eye  than  ours, 

The  good  of  suffering  born — 
The  hearts  that  blossom  like  her  flowers, 

And  ripen  like  her  corn. 

Oh,  give  to  us,  in  times  like  these, 

The  vision  of  her  eyes  ; 
And  make  her  fields  and  fruited  trees 

Our  golden  prophecies ! 


130 


Oh,  give  to  us  her  finer  ear! 

Above  this  stormy  din 
We  too  would  hear  the  bells  of  cheer 

Ring  peace  and  freedom  in. 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIBR. 


NEVER  OR  NOW. 
[1862.3 

LISTEN,  young  heroes  !  your  country  is  calling ! 

Time  strikes  the  hour  for  the  brave  and  the  true  ! 
Now,  while  the  foremost  are  fighting  and  falling, 

Fill  up  the  ranks  that  have  opened  for  you  ! 

You  whom  the  fathers  made  free  and  defended, 
Stain  not  the  scroll  that  emblazons  their  fame  I 

You  whose  fair  heritage  spotless  descended, 
Leave  not  your  children  a  birthright  of  shame  ! 

Stay  not  for  questions  while  Freedom  stands  gasp 
ing  ! 

Wait  not  till  Honor  lies  wrapped  in  his  pall ! 
Brief  the  lips'  meeting  be,  swift  the  hands'  clasping : 

"  Off  for  the  wars  !"  is  enough  for  them  all. 

Break  from  the  arms  that  would  fondly  caress  you ! 

Hark !  'tis  the  bugle-blast,  sabres  are  drawn ! 
Mothers  shall  pray  for  you,  fathers  shall  bless  you, 

Maidens  shall  weep  for  you  when  you  are  gone  ! 

Never  or  now !  cries  the  blood  of  a  nation, 
Poured  on   the  turf  where  the  red  rose  should 
bloom  ; 

Now  is  the  day  and  the  hour  of  salvation, — 
Never  or  now  !  peals  the  trumpet  of  doom ! 


Never  or  now !  roars  the  hoarse-throated  cannon 
Through  the  black  canopy  blotting  the  skies  ; 

Never  or  now !  flaps  the  shell-blasted  pennon 
O'er  the  deep  ooze  where  the  Cumberland  lies  ! 

From  the  foul  dens  where  our  brothers  are  dying, 
Aliens  and  foes  in  the  land  of  their  birth, — 

From  the  rank  swamps  where  our  martyrs  are  lying, 
Pleading  in  vain  for  a  handful  of  earth, — 

From  the  hot  plains  where  they  perish  outnumbered, 
Furrowed  and  ridged  by  the  battle-field's  plough, 
Comes  the  loud  summons  ;  too  long  you  have  slum 
bered, 

Hear  the  last  Angel-trump — Never  or  Now  ! 
OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 


CLOUDS  IN  THE  WEST. 

HARK  !  on  the  wind  that  whistles  from  the  West 
A  manly  shout  for  instant  succor  comes, 

From  men  who  fight,  outnumbered,  breast  to  breast. 
With  rage-indented  drums  ; 

Who  dare  for  child,  wife,  country,  stream  and  strand, 
Though  but  a  fraction  to  the  swarming  foe, 

There,  at  the  flooded  gateways  of  the  land, 
To  stem  a  torrent's  flow. 

To  arms !  brave  sons  of  each  embattled  State, 
Whose  queenly  standard  is  a  Southern  star : 

Who  would  be  free  must  ride  the  lists  of  Fate 
On  Freedom's  victor-car  ! 

Forsake  the  field,  the  shop,  the  mart,  the  hum 
Of  craven  traffic,  for  the  mustering  clan : 


MO 


The   dead  themselves  are  pledged  that  you  shall 

come 
And  prove  yourself  a  man. 

Blow,  summoning  trumpets,  a  compulsive  stave 
Through  all  the  bounds  from  Beersheba  to  Dan  ; 

Come  out  !  come  out  !  who  scorns  to  be  a  slave, 
Or  claims  to  be  a  man  ! 

Hark  !  on  the  breezes  whistling  from  the  West 
A  manly  shout  for  instant  succor  comes, 

From  men  who  fight,  outnumbered,  breast  to  breast, 
With  rage-indented  drums  ; 

Who  charge  and  cheer  amid  the  murderous  din, 
Where  still  your  battle-Hags  unbended  wave, 

Dying  for  what  your  fathers  died  to  win, 
And  you  must  fight  to  save. 

A.  J.  REQUIER. 


A  WORD  WITH  THE  WEST. 

[On  the  appointment  of  General  Joseph  E.  Johnston  to 
the  command  of  the  Confederate  armies  in  the  West, 
November,  1862.] 

ONCE  more  to  the  breach  for  the  Land  of  the  West ! 
And  a  leader  we  give,  of  our  bravest  and  best, 

Of  his  State  and  his  army  the  pride ; 
Hope  shines  like  the  plume  of  Navarre  on  his  crest, 

And  gleams  in  the  glaive  at  his  side. 

For  his  courage  is  keen  and  his  honor  is  bright 
As  the  trusty  Toledo  he  wears  to  the  fight, 

Newly  wrought  in  the  forges  of  Spain, 
And   this  weapon,  like  all  he  has  brandished  for 
Right, 

Will  never  be  dimmed  by  a  stain. 


141 


He  leaves  the  loved  soil  of  Virginia  behind, 
Where  the  dust  of  his  fathers  is  fitly  enshrined. 

Where  lie  the  fresh  fields  of  his  fame  ; 
Where  the  murmurous  pines,  as  they  sway  in   the 
wind, 

Seem  ever  to  whisper  his  name. 

The  Johnstons  have  always  borne  wings  on  their 

spurs, 
And  their  motto  a  noble  distinction  confers, 

"  Ever  ready  " — for  friend  or  for  foe — 
With  a  patriot's  fervor  the  sentiment  stirs 

The  large  manly  heart  of  our  Joe. 

We  recall  that  a  former  bold  chief  of  the  clan 
Fell,  bravely  defending  the  West,  in  the  van 

On  Shiloh's  illustrious  day  ; 
And  with  reason  we  reckon  our  Johnston  the  man 

The  dark  bloody  debt  to  repay. 

There  is  much  to  be  done :  if  not  glory  to  seek, 
There's  a  just  and  a  terrible  vengeance  to  wreak 

For  crimes  of  a  terrible  dye, 
While  the  plaint  of  the  helpless,  the  wail  of  the  weak 

In  a  chorus  rise  up  to  the  sky. 

For  the  Wolf  of  the  North  we  once  drove  to  his  den, 
That  quailed  in  affright  'neath  the  stern  glance  of 
men, 

With  his  pack  has  returned  to  the  spoil ; 
Then  come  from  the  hamlet,  the  mountain,  the  glen, 

And  drive  him  again  from  the  soil  I 

Brave-born  Tennesseans,  so  loyal,  so  true, 

Who  have  hunted  the  beast  in  your  highlands,  of  you 

Our  leader  has  never  a  doubt ; 
You  will  troop  by  the  thousand  the  chase  to  renew 

The  day  when  his  bugles  ring  out. 


142 


But  ye  "  Hunters"  so  famed  "  of  Kentucky"  of  yore, 
Where,  where  are  the  rifles  that  kept  from  your  door 

The  wolf  and  the  robber  as  well  ? 
Of  a  truth,  you  have  never  been  laggard  before 

To  deal  with  a  savage  so  fell. 

Has  the  love  you  once  bore  to  your  country  grown 

cold  ? 
Has  the  fire  on  the  altar  died  out  ?     Do  you  hold 

Your  lives  than  your  freedom  more  dear  ? 
Can  you  shamefully  barter  your  birthright  for  gold, 

Or  basely  take  counsel  of  fear  ? 

We  will  not  believe  it  \    Kentucky,  the  land 
Of  a  Clay,  will  not  tamely  submit  to  the  brand 

That  disgraces  the  dastard,  the  slave  ; 
The  hour  of  redemption  draws  nigh — is  at  hand — 

Her  own  sons  her  own  honor  shall  save  I 

Mighty  men  of  Missouri,  come  forth  to  the  call, 
With  the  rush  of  your  rivers  when  tempests  appall, 

And  the  torrents  their  sources  unseal ; 
And  this  be  the  watchword  of  one  and  of  all — 

"  Remember  the  butcher,  McNiel  \" 

Then  once  more  to  the  breach  for  the  land  of  the 

West! 
Strike  home  for  your  hearts — for  the  lips  you  love 

best- 
Follow  on  where  your  Leader  you  see ! 
One  flash  of  his  sword  when  the  foe  is  hard  pressed, 
And  the  Land  of  the  West  thall  be  free ! 

JOHN  R.  THOMPSON. 


143 


THE  BIVOUAC  IN  THE  SNOW. 

HALT  ! — the  march  is  over, 

Day  is  almost  done  ; 
Loose  the  cumbrous  knapsack, 

Drop  the  heavy  gun. 
Chilled  and  wet  and  weary, 

Wander  to  and  fro, 
Seeking  wood  to  kindle 

Fires  amidst  the  snow. 

Round  the  bright  blaze  gather, 

Heed  not  sleet  nor  cold  ; 
Ye  are  Spartan  soldiers, 

Stout  and  brave  and  bold. 
Never  Xerxian  army 

Yet  subdued  a  foe 
Who  but  asked  a  blanket 

On  a  bed  of  snow. 

Shivering,  "midst  the  darkness, 

Christian  men  are  found, 
There  devoutly  kneeling 

On  the  frozen  ground — 
Pleading  for  their  country, 

In  its  hour  of  woe — 
For  its  soldiers  marching 

Shoeless  through  the  snow. 

Lost  in  heavy  slumbers, 

Free  from  toil  and  strife, 
Dreaming  of  their  dear  ones — 

Home,  and  child,  and  wife, 
Tentless  they  are  lying, 

While  the  fires  burn  low — 
Lying  in  their  blankets, 

'Midst  December's  snow. 

MARGARET  J.  PRESTON. 


144 


FREDERICKSBURG. 

{December  13,  1862.] 

THE  increasing  moonlight  drifts  across  my  bed, 
And  on  the  churchyard  by  the  road,  I  know 
It  falls  as  white  and  noiselessly  as  snow. 
'Twas  such  a  night  two  weary  summers  fled  ; 
The  stars,  as  now,  were  waning  overhead. 
Listen  !     Again  the  shrill-lipped  bugles  blow 
Where  the  swift  currents  of  the  river  flow 
Past  Fredericksburg :  far  off  the  heavens  are  red 
With  sudden  conflagration  :  on  yon  height, 
Linstock  in  hand,  the  gunners  hold  their  breath  : 
A  signal-rocket  pierces  the  dense  night, 
Flings  its  spent  stars  upon  the  town  beneath : 
Hark  ! — the  artillery  massing  on  the  right, 
Hark ! — the   black  squadrons   wheeling  down    to 
Death ! 

TUOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 


KILLED  AT  FREDERICKSBURG. 

FRED  MASON  came  beside  my  fire, 

But  turned  with  light,  familiar  warning : 

"  Sleep,  though  your  bed  be  cold  and  damp, 
And  I  will  meet  you  in  the  morning." 

For  fraught  with  doubt  the  day  had  passed. 
And,  noiselessly  at  dusk  parading, 

We  slept  upon  the  frozen  hills 

That  shook  with  Burnside's  cannonading. 

While  through  the  gloom  our  long  black  guns 
Their  messages  of  death  deliver, 

The  word  runs  low  from  lip  to  lip : 
"  At  break  of  day  we  cross  the  river." 


145 


The  long  night  passed  ;  ten  thousand  eyes 
Turned  to  the  wintry  heaven  o'er  them  ; 

Then  left  their  painful  sleep  behind, 

To  meet  the  dreamless  sleep  before  them. 

From  bluff  to  bluff  the  batteries  growled, 
And  all  day  long  we  faced  their  thunder, — 

But  others,  in  their  time,  shall  tell 
The  story  of  that  bloody  blunder. 

When  Fredericksburg  was  won  at  last, 
Just  where  the  bugle  sounded  "  Forward  !" 

Fred  Mason  lay,  his  breast  in  front, 

His  whitened  features  looking  Nor'ward. 

His  fingers  in  the  trampled  soil, 

Convulsed  and  blue,  were  tightly  clinching  ; 
His  dead  eyes,  staring  to  the  sky, 

Yet  stared  defiant  and  unflinching. 

Dead  eyes ! — when  last  they  flashed  in  mine, 
Our  hearts  were  lighter  than  a  feather : 

Well,  God  forgive  me  !  but  I  wish 
We  both  had  fallen  there  together. 

Enough  for  thee,  one  soldier  mourns 
A  friend  misfortune  never  altered, 

A  lip  of  cheer,  a  soul  of  fire, 

A  head  and  hand  that  never  faltered. 

In  peace,  below  the  blood-stained  height. 
This  waving  wood,  this  flowing  river, 

Shall  lull  at  last  thy  restless  brain 
To  sleep  forever  and  forever. 

Above  thy  breast  the  quail  shall  glide, 
The  rabbit  cull  his  dewy  clover ; 

And  long  as  heaven's  wind  shall  blow, 
The  holly  bend  thy  slumber  over. 


Round  rocky  isle  and  laurelled  banks 
The  Rappahannock,  softly  dashing, 

Sound  sweet  as  on  the  fatal  morn 
When  last  we  listened  to  its  plashing. 

Here  shall  the  solemn  cricket  slide 
And  chant  amid  thy  grassy  cover ; 

And  Nature,  like  a  maiden,  watch 
The  turf  that  wraps  her  daring  lover. 

Sleep  on,  sleep  on ;  no  more  this  vale 
Wakes  to  the  signal's  hellish  warning  : 

"  Sleep,  though  your  bed  be  cold  and  damp, 
And  I  will  meet  you  in  the  morning." 

CHAUNCEY  HICKOX. 


CHRISTMAS  NIGHT  OF  '62. 
[In  the  Army  of  Northern  Virginia^ 

THE  wintry  blast  goes  wailing  by, 
The  snow  is  falling  overhead  ; 
I  hear  the  lonely  sentry's  tread, 

And  distant  watch-fires  light  the  sky, 

Dim  forms  go  flitting  through  the  gloom  ; 
The  soldiers  cluster  'round  the  blaze, 
To  talk  of  other  Christmas  days, 

And  softly  speak  of  home  and  home. 

My  sabre  swinging  overhead 

Gleams  in  the  watch-fire's  fitful  glow, 
While  fiercely  drives  the  blinding  snow, 

And  memory  leads  me  to  the  dead. 

My  thoughts  go  wandering  to  and  fro, 
Vibrating  'twixt  the  Now  and  Then  ; 
I  see  the  low-brow'd  home  agen, 

The  old  hall  wreathed  with  mistletoe, 


And  sweetly  from  the  far-off  years 

Comes  borne  the  laughter  faint  and  low, 
The  voices  of  the  Long  Ago  ! 

My  eyes  are  wet  with  tender  tears. 

I  feel  agen  the  mother-kiss, 
I  see  agen  the  glad  surprise 
That  lightened  up  the  tranquil  eyes 

And  brimmed  them  o'er  with  tears  of  bliss, 

As,  rushing  from  the  old  hall-door, 
She  fondly  clasp 'd  her  wayward  boy — 
Her  face  all  radiant  with  the  joy 

She  felt  to  see  him  home  once  more. 

My  sabre  swinging  on  the  bough 

Gleams  in  the  watch-fire's  fitful  glow, 
While  fiercely  drives  the  blinding  snow 

Aslant  upon  my  sadden 'd  brow. 

Those  cherished  faces  all  are  gone  ! 
Asleep  within  the  quiet  graves 
Where  lies  the  snow  in  drifting  waves, — 

And  I  am  sitting  here  alone. 

There's  not  a  comrade  here  to-night 
But  knows  that  lov'd  ones  far  away 
On  bended  knees  this  night  will  pray : 

"  God  bring  our  darling  from  the  fight." 

But  there  are  none  to  wish  me  back, 
For  me  no  yearning  prayers  arise, 
The  lips  are  mute  and  closed  the  eyes — 

My  home  is  in  the  bivouac. 

W.  GORDON  MACCABE. 


BOSTON  HYMN. 

\Read  at  the  Emancipation  Meeting  in  Boston^  January 
i,  1863.] 

THE  word  of  the  Lord  by  night 
To  the  watching  Pilgrims  came, 

As  they  sat  by  the  sea-side, 

And  filled  their  hearts  with  flame. 

God  said,  I  am  tired  of  kings, 

I  surfer  them  no  more ; 
Up  to  my  ear  the  morning  brings 

The  outrage  of  the  poor. 

Think  ye  I  made  this  ball 

A  field  of  havoc  and  war, 
Where  tyrants  great  and  tyrants  small 

Might  harry  the  weak  and  poor? 

My  angel, — his  name  is  Freedom, — 

Choose  him  to  be  your  king ; 
He  shall  cut  pathways  east  and  west, 

And  fend  you  with  his  wing. 

Lo  !  I  uncover  the  land 

Which  I  hid  of  old  time  in  the  West, 
As  the  sculptor  uncovers  his  statue 

When  he  has  wrought  his  best ; 

I  show  Columbia,  of  the  rocks 
Which  dip  their  foot  in  the  seas 

And  soar  to  the  air-borne  flocks 
Of  clouds  and  the  boreal  fleece. 

I  will  divide  my  goods  ; 

Call  in  the  wretch  and  slave : 
None  shall  rule  but  the  humble, 

And  none  but  Toil  shall  have. 


143 


I  will  have  never  a  noble, 

No  lineage  counted  great : 
Fishers  and  choppers  and  ploughmen 

Shall  constitute  a  state. 

Go,  cut  down  trees  in  the  forest, 
And  trim  the  straightest  boughs  ; 

Cut  down  trees  in  the  forest, 
And  build  me  a  wooden  house. 

Call  the  people  together, 

The  young  men  and  the  sires, 

The  digger  in  the  harvest-field, 
Hireling  and  him  that  hires  ; 

And  here  in  a  pine  state-house 
They  shall  choose  men  to  rule 

In  every  needful  faculty, 

In  church  and  state  and  school. 

Lo,  now  I  if  these  poor  men 
Can  govern  the  land  and  sea, 

And  make  just  laws  below  the  sun, 
As  planets  faithful  be. 

And  ye  shall  succor  men  ; 

'Tis  nobleness  to  serve ; 
Help  them  who  cannot  help  again : 

Beware  from  right  to  swerve. 

I  break  your  bonds  and  masterships, 

And  I  unchain  the  slave : 
Free  be  his  heart  and  hand  henceforth, 

As  wind  and  wandering  wave. 

I  cause  from  every  creature 

His  proper  good  to  flow  : 
As  much  as  he  is  and  doeth, 

So  much  he  shall  bestow. 


15D 


But,  laying  his  hands  on  another 

To  coin  his  labor  and  sweat, 
He  goes  in  pawn  to  his  victim 

For  eternal  years  in  debt. 

To-day  unbind  the  captive, 

So  only  are  ye  unbound  ; 
Lift  up  a  people  from  the  dust, 

Trump  of  their  rescue,  sound  ! 

Pay  ransom  to  the  owner, 

And  fill  the  bag  to  the  brim. 
Who  is  the  owner  ?     The  slave  is  owner, 

And  ever  was.     Pay  him. 

O  North  !  give  him  beauty  for  rags, 
And  honor,  O  South  !  for  his  shame ; 

Nevada  !  coin  thy  golden  crags 
With  Freedom's  image  and  name. 

Up !  and  the  dusky  race 

That  sat  in  darkness  long, — 
Be  swift  their  feet  as  antelopes, 

And  as  behemoth  strong. 

Come,  East  and  West  and  North, 

By  races,  as  snow-flakes, 
And  carry  my  purpose  forth, 

Which  neither  halts  nor  shakes. 

My  will  fulfilled  shall  be, 

For,  in  daylight  or  in  dark, 
My  thunderbolt  has  eyes  to  see 

His  way  home  to  the  mark. 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 


121 


THE  OLD  SERGEANT. 

{This  poem,  which  has  been  widely  copied  and  is 
printed  usually  without  the  prelude,  first  appeared,  in  the 
form  in  which  it  is  here  given,  as  the  Carrier's  New 
Year's  Address  of  the  Louisville  Courier- Journal,  in 
1863.] 

The  Carrier  cannot  sing  to-day  the  ballads 

With  which  he  used  to  go 
Rhyming  the  glad  rounds  of  the  happy  New  Years 

That  are  now  beneath  the  snow  : 

For  the  same  awful  and  portentous  Shadow 

That  overcast  the  earth, 
And  smote  the  land  last  year  with  desolation, 

Still  darkens  every  hearth. 

And  the  Carrier  hears  Beethoven's  mighty  death- 
march 

Come  up  from  every  mart, 
And  he  hears  and  feels  it  breathing  in  his  bosom, 

And  beating  in  his  heart. 

And  to-day,  a  scarred  and  weather-beaten  veteran, 

Again  he  comes  along, 
To  tell  the  story  of  the  Old  Year's  struggles 

In  another  New  Year's  song. 

And  the  song  is  his,  but  not  so  with  the  story  ; 

For  the  story,  you  must  know, 
Was  told  in  prose  to  Assistant-Surgeon  Austin, 

By  a  soldier  of  Shiloh  : 

By  Robert  Burton,  who   was  brought  up  on  the 
Adams, 

With  his  death-wound  in  his  side  ; 
And  who  told  the  story  to  the  Assistant-Surgeon 

On  the  same  night  that  he  died. 


152 


But  the  singer  feels  it  will  better  suit  the  ballad, 

If  all  should  deem  it  right, 
To  tell  the  story  as  if  what  it  speaks  of 

Had  happened  but  last  night. 


"  Come  a  little  nearer,  Doctor — thank  you  ;  let  me 

take  the  cup : 
Draw  your  chair  up — draw  it  closer ;  just  another 

little  sup  ! 
Maybe  you   may  think  I'm  better;  but  I'm  pretty 

well  used  up — 
Doctor,  you've  done  all  you  could  do,  but  I'm  just 

a-going  up ! 

"  Feel  my  pulse,  sir,  if  you  want  to,  but  it  ain't  much 

use  to  try," — 
"  Never  say  that,"  said  the  Surgeon,  as  he  smothered 

down  a  sigh  ; 
"  It  will  never  do,  old  comrade,  for  a  soldier  to  say 

die  !" 
"  What  you  say  will  make  no  difference,  Doctor, 

when  you  come  to  die. 

"  Doctor,  what  has  been  the  matter  ?"    "  You  were 

very  faint,  they  say  ; 
You  must  try  to  get  to  sleep  now."     "  Doctor,  have 

I  been  away?" 
"  Not  that  anybody  knows  of  !"    "  Doctor — Doctor, 

please  to  stay ! 
There  is  something  I  must  tell  you,  and  you  won't 

have  long  to  stay  ! 

"I  have  got  my  marching  orders,  and  I'm  ready 

now  to  go  ; 
Doctor,  did  you  say  I  fainted  ? — but  it  couldn't  ha' 

been  so, 
For  as  sure  as  I'm  a  Sergeant,  and  was  wounded  at 

Shiloh, 
I've  this  very  night  been  back  there,  on  the  old  field 

of  Shiloh  J 


153 


"  This  is  all  that  I  remember :  The  last  time  the 

Lighter  came, 
And  the  lights  had  all  been  lowered,  and  the  noises 

much  the  same, 
He  had  not  been  gone  five  minutes  before  something 

called  my  name : 
4  ORDERLY  SERGEANT — ROBERT  BURTON  ! ' — just 

that  way  it  called  my  name. 

"  And  I  wondered  who  could  call  me  so  distinctly 

and  so  slow, 
Knew  it  couldn't  be  the  Lighter,  he  could  not  have 

spoken  so, 
And  I  tried  to  answer,  '  Here,  sir  ! '  but  I   couldn't 

make  it  go ; 
For  I  couldn't  move  a  muscle,  and  I  couldn't  make 

it  go. 

"  Then  I  thought :  it's  all  a  nightmare,  all  a  hum 
bug  and  a  bore ; 

Just  another  foolish  grape-vine — and  it  won't  come 
any  more ; 

But  it  came,  sir,  notwithstanding,  just  the  same  way 
as  before  : 

'  ORDERLY  SERGEANT — ROBERT  BURTON  ! ' — even 
louder  than  before. 

"  That  is  all  that  I  remember,  till  a  sudden  burst  of 
light, 

And  I  stood  beside  the  river,  where  we  stood  that 
Sunday  night, 

Waiting  to  be  ferried  over  to  the  dark  bluffs  oppo 
site, 

When  the  river  was  perdition,  and  all  hell  was 
opposite ! 

"  And  the  same  old  palpitation  came  again  in  all  its 
power, 

And  I  heard  a  Bugle  sounding,  as  from  some  celes 
tial  Tower ; 


154 


And  the  same  mysterious  voice  said :  '  IT  is  THE 

ELEVENTH  HOUR! 
ORDERLY  SERGEANT — ROBERT  BURTON— IT  is 

THE  ELEVENTH  HOUR!' 

"  Dr.  Austin  ! — what  day  is  this  ?"  "  It  is  Wednes 
day  night,  you  know." 

"  Yes— to-morrow  will  be  New  Year's,  and  a  right 
good  time  below ! 

What  time  is  it,  Dr.  Austin  ?"  "  Nearly  twelve." 
"  Then  don't  you  go  ! 

Can  it  be  that  all  this  happened — all  this — not  an 
hour  ago  ? 

"  There  was  where  the  gunboats  opened  on  the  dark 

rebellious  host ; 
And  where  Webster  semi-circled  his  last  guns  upon 

the  coast ; 
There  were  still  the  two  log-houses,  just  the  same, 

or  else  their  ghost — 
And  the   same  old  transport  came  and    took   me 

over — or  its  ghost ! 

"  And  the  old  field  lay  before  me,  all  deserted,  far 

and  wide : 
There    was  where    they   fell    on    Prentiss — there 

McClernand  met  the  tide  ; 
There  was  where  stern  Sherman  rallied,  and  where 

Hurlbut's  heroes  died — 
Lower  down,   where  Wallace  charged  them,  and 

kept  charging  till  he  died. 

"  There  was  where  Lew  Wallace  showed  them  he 

was  of  the  canny  kin, 
There  was  where  old  Nelson  thundered,  and  where 

Rousseau  waded  in ; 
There  McCook  sent  'em  to  breakfast,  and  we  all 

began  to  win, — 
There  was  where  the  grape-shot  took  me,  just  as 

we  began  to  win. 


"  Now,  a  shroud  of  snow  and  silence  over  every 
thing  was  spread ; 

And  but  for  this  old  blue  mantle  and  the  old  hat  on 
my  head, 

I  should  not  have  even  doubted,  to  this  moment,  I 
was  dead, — 

For  my  footsteps  were  as  silent  as  the  snow  upon 
the  dead  ! 

"Death    and    silence! — Death  and   silence!     all 

around  me  as  I  sped ! 
And  behold,  a  mighty  Tower,  as  if  builded  to  the 

dead, 
To  the  Heaven  of  the  heavens  lifted  up  its  mighty 

head, 
Till  the  Stars  and  Stripes  of  Heaven  all  seemed 

waving  from  its  head  ! 

"  Round  and  mighty-based  it  towered  up  into  the 

infinite — 
And  I  knew  no  mortal  mason  could  have  built  a 

shaft  so  bright ; 
For  it  shone    like  solid  sunshine,  and  a  winding 

stair  of  light 
Wound  around  it  and  around  it  till  it  wound  clear 

out  of  sight ! 

"  And,  behold,  as  I  approached  it — with  a  rapt  and 

dazzled  stare — 
Thinking  that  I  saw  old  comrades  just  ascending 

the  great  stair — 
Suddenly  the  solemn  challenge  broke  of — '  Halt ! ' 

and  '  Who  goes  there  ?  ' 
'I'm  a  friend, '  I  said,  'if  you  are  !'  '  Then  advance, 

sir,  to  the  Stair ! ' 

"  I   advanced  !     That  sentry,  Doctor,   was   Elijah 

Ballantyne ! 
First  of  all  to  fall  on  Monday,  after  we  had  formed 

the  line ! 


156 


'  Welcome,  my  old  Sergeant,  welcome  !     Welcome 

by  that  countersign  ! ' 
And  he   pointed   to  the  scar  there,  under  this  old 

cloak  of  mine. 

"  As   he  grasped  my  hand    I  shuddered,  thinking" 

only  of  the  grave  ; 
But  he  smiled,  and  pointed  upward,  with  a  bright 

and  bloodless  glaive  : 
'  That's  the  way,  sir,    to  Headquarters. '     '  What 

Headquarters  ? '     'Of  the  Brave  ! ' 
'  But  the  great  Tower?  '     '  That  was  builded  of  the 

great  deeds  of  the  Brave  ! ' 

"  Then  a  sudden  shame  came  o'er  me  at  his  uniform 

of  light  ; 
At  my  own  so  old  and  battered,  and  at  his  so  new 

and  bright ; 
'  Ah  ! '  said  he, '  you  have  forgotten  the  new  uniform 

to-night ! 
'  Hurry  back — for  you  must  be  here  at  just  twelve 

o'clock  to-night ! ' 

"  And  the  next  thing  I  remember,  you  were  sitting 
there,  and  I 

Doctor — did  you  hear  a  footstep  ?  Hark  ! — God 
bless  you  all !  Good-by  ! 

Doctor,  please  to  give  my  musket  and  my  knap 
sack,  when  I  die, 

To  my  son — my  son  that's  coming — he  won't  get 
here  till  I  die ! 

"  Tell  him  his  old  father  blessed  him — as  he  never 

did  before — 
And  to  carry  that  old  musket " Hark  !  a  knock 

is  at  the  door ! 

"  Till    the    Union  "-        —  See  !     it  opens  ! • 

"  Father  !  Father  !  speak  once  more  !" 
"  Bless  you  /" — gasped  the  old  gray  Sergeant.  And 

he  lay  and  said  no  more. 

FORCEYTHE  WlLLSON. 


READY. 

LOADED  with  gallant  soldiers, 

A  boat  shot  in  to  the  land, 
And  lay  at  the  right  of  Rodman's  Point, 

With  her  keel  upon  the  sand. 

Lightly,  gayly,  they  came  to  shore, 

And  never  a  man  afraid  ; 
When  sudden  the  enemy  opened  fire 

From  his  deadly  ambuscade. 

Each  man  fell  flat  on  the  bottom 
Of  the  boat ;  and  the  captain  said : 

"  If  we  lie  here,  we  all  are  captured, 
And  the  first  who  moves  is  dead !" 

Then  out  spoke  a  negro  sailor, 

No  slavish  soul  had  he  : 
"  Somebody's  got  to  die,  boys, 

And  it  might  as  well  be  me  !" 

Firmly  he  rose,  and  fearlessly 

Stepped  out  into  the  tide  ; 
He  pushed  the  vessel  safely  off, 

Then  fell  across  her  side  : 

Fell,  pierced  by  a  dozen  bullets, 
As  the  boat  swung  clear  and  free ; 

But  there  wasn't  a  man  of  them  that  day 
Who  was  fitter  to  die  than  he  ! 

PHCEBE  GARY. 


THE  DEAD  CANNONEER. 

[General  Pel/tarn,  C.  S.  A.,  killed  at  Kelly's  Ford,  Fa.. 
March  17,  1863.] 

JUST  as  the  spring  came  laughing  through  the  strife, 

With  all  its  gorgeous  cheer, 
In  the  bright  April  of  historic  life, 

Fell  the  great  cannoneer. 

The  wondrous  lulling  of  a  hero's  breath 

His  bleeding  country  weeps  ; 
Hushed  in  the  alabaster  arms  of  Death, 

Our  young  Marcellus  sleeps. 

Nobler  and  grander  than  the  Child  of  Rome 

Curbing  his  chariot  steeds, 
The  knightly  scion  of  a  Southern  home 

Dazzled  the  land  with  deeds. 

Gentlest  and  bravest  in  the  battle-brunt, 

The  champion  of  the  truth, 
He  bore  his  banner  to  the  very  front 

Of  our  immortal  youth. 

A  clang  of  sabres  'mid  Virginian  snow, 

The  fiery  pang  of  shells, — 
And  there's  a  wail  of  immemorial  woe 

In  Alabama  dells. 

The  pennon  drops  that  led  the  sacred  band 

Along  the  crimson  field  ; 
The  meteor  blade  sinks  from  the  nerveless  hand 

Over  the  spotless  shield. 

We  gazed  and  gazed  upon  that  beauteous  face ; 

While  round  the  lips  and  eyes, 
Couched  in  their  marble  slumber,  flashed  the  grace 

Of  a  divine  surprise. 


isa 


O  mother  of  a  blessed  soul  on  high  ! 

Thy  tears  may  soon  be  shed  ; 
Think  of  thy  boy  with  princes  of  the  sky, 

Among  the  Southern  dead  ! 

How  must  he  smile  on  this  dull  world  beneath. 

Fevered  with  swift  renown, — 
He,  with  the  martyr's  amaranthine  wreath 

Twining  the  victor's  crown  ! 

JAMES  R.  RANDALL. 


THE  BAND  IN  THE  PINES. 

[Heard  after  Pelham  died.} 

OH,  band  in  the  pine-wood,  cease ! 

Cease  with  your  splendid  call ; 
The  living  are  brave  and  noble, 

But  the  dead  were  bravest  of  all ! 

They  throng  to  the  martial  summons, 

To  the  loud  triumphant  strain  ; 
And  the  dear  bright  eyes  of  long-dead  friends 

Come  to  the  heart  again  ! 

They  come  with  the  ringing  bugle, 
And  the  deep  drum's  mellow  roar  ; 

Till  the  soul  is  faint  with  longing 
For  the  hands  we  clasp  no  more ! 

Oh,  band  in  the  pine-wood,  cease ! 

Or  the  heart  will  melt  in  tears, 
For  the  gallant  eyes  and  the  smiling  lips, 

And  the  voices  of  old  years ! 

JOHN  ESTEN  COOKE. 


CHARLESTON. 

[April,  1863.] 

CALM  as  that  second  summer  which  precedes 

The  first  fall  of  the  snow, 
In  the  broad  sunlight  of  heroic  deeds, 

The  city  bides  the  foe. 

As  yet,  behind  their  ramparts,  stern  and  proud, 

Her  bolted  thunders  sleep, — 
Dark  Sumter,  like  a  battlemented  cloud, 

Looms  o'er  the  solemn  deep. 

No  Calpe  frowns  from  lofty  cliff  or  scaur 

To  guard  the  holy  strand  ; 
But  Moultrie  holds  in  leash  her  dogs  of  war, 

Above  the  level  sand. 

And  down  the  dunes  a  thousand  guns  lie  couched, 

Unseen,  beside  the  flood, — 
Like  tigers  in  some  Orient  jungle  crouched, 

That  wait  and  watch  for  blood. 

Meanwhile,  through  streets  still  echoing  with  trade, 

Walk  grave  and  thoughtful  men, 
Whose  hands  may  one  day  wield  the  patriot's  blade 

As  lightly  as  the  pen. 

And  maidens,  with  such  eyes  as  would  grow  dim 

Over  a  bleeding  hound, 
Seem  each  one  to  have  caught  the  strength  of  him 

Whose  sword  she  sadly  bound. 

Thus  girt  without  and  garrisoned  at  home, 

Day  patient  following  day, 
Old  Charleston  looks  from  roof  and  spire  and  dome, 

Across  her  tranquil  bay. 


Ships,  through  a  hundred  foes,  from  Saxon  lands 

And  spicy  Indian  ports, 
Bring  Saxon  steel  and  iron  to  her  hands, 

And  summer  to  her  courts. 

But  still,  along  yon  dim  Atlantic  line, 

The  only  hostile  smoke 
Creeps  like  a  harmless  mist  above  the  brine, 

From  some  frail  floating  oak. 

Shall  the  Spring  dawn,  and  she,  still  clad  in  smiles, 

And  with  an  unscathed  brow, 
Rest  in  the  strong  arms  of  her  palm-crowned  isles, 

As  fair  and  free  as  now  ? 

We  know  not ;  in  the  temple  of  the  Fates 

God  has  inscribed  her  doom  : 
And,  all  untroubled  in  her  faith,  she  waits 

The  triumph  or  the  tomb. 

HENRY  TIMROD. 


THE    BATTLE   OF  CHARLESTON    HARBOR. 

[Bombardment  of  Fort  Sumter  by  the  South   Atlantic 
Squadron,  U.  S.  Navy,  April  7,  1863.] 


Two  hours,  or  more,  beyond  the  prime  of  a  blithe 

April  day, 
The  Northman's  mailed  "  Invincibles  "  steamed  up 

fair  Charleston  Bay ; 
They  came  in  sullen  file  and  slow,  low-breasted  on 

the  wave, 
Black  as  a  midnight  front  of  storm,  and  silent  as 

the  grave. 


ii. 

A  thousand  warrior-hearts  beat  high  as  those  dread 

monsters  drew 
More    closely  to    the  game   of   death    across  the 

breezeless  blue, 
And    twice   ten    thousand    hearts   of    those   who 

watched  the  scene  afar, 
Thrill  in   the  awful   hush   that  bides  the   battle's 

broadening  star. 

ill. 

Each  gunner,  moveless  by  his  gun,  with  rigid  aspect 
stands, 

The  ready  lanyards  firmly  grasped  in  bold,  untrem- 
bling  hands, 

So  moveless  in  their  marbled  calm,  their  stern 
heroic  guise, 

They  looked  like  forms  of  statued  stone  with  burn 
ing  human  eyes ! 

IV. 

Our  banners  on  the  outmost  walls,  with  stately 
rustling  fold, 

Flash  back  from  arch  and  parapet  the  sunlight's 
ruddy  gold, — 

They  mount  to  the  deep  roll  of  drums,  and  widely- 
echoing  cheers, 

And  then — once  more,  dark,  breathless,  hushed, 
wait  the  grim  cannoneers. 

v. 

Onward — in  sullen  file  and  slow,  low  glooming  on 
the  wave, 

Near,  nearer  still,  the  haughty  fleet  glides  silent  as 
the  grave, 

When  sudden,  shivering  up  the  calm,  o'er  startled 
flood  and  shore, 

Burst  from  the  sacred  Island  Fort  the  thunder- 
wrath  of  yore ! 


IBB 


VI. 

Ha  !  brutal  Corsairs  !  though  ye  come  thrice-cased 
in  iron  mail, 

Beware  the  storm  that's  opening  now,  God's  ven 
geance  guides  the  hail ! 

Ye  strive,  the  ruffian  types  of  Might,  'gainst  law  and 
truth  and  Right : 

Now  quail  beneath  a  sturdier  Power,  and  own  a 
mightier  Might ! 

VII. 

No  empty  boast !  for  while  we  speak,  more  furious, 

wilder,  higher, 
Dart  from  the  circling  batteries  a  hundred  tongues 

of  fire ; 
The   waves  gleam   red,  the   lurid  vault  of   heaven 

seems  rent  above ; 
Fight  on,  O    knightly  gentlemen  !    for  faith    and 

home  and  love ! 

VIII. 

There's  not  in  all  that  line  of  flame,  one  soul  that 

would  not  rise 
To  seize  the  victor's  wreath  of  blood,  though  death 

must  give  the  prize — 
There's  not  in  all  this  anxious  crowd  that  throngs 

the  ancient  town 
A  maid  who  does  not  yearn  for  power  to  strike  one 

despot  down. 

IX. 

The  strife  grows  fiercer !  ship  by  ship  the  proud 
armada  sweeps, 

Where  hot  from  Sumter's  raging  breast  the  vol 
leyed  lightning  leaps  ; 

And  ship  by  ship,  raked,  overborne,  ere  burned  the 
sunset  light, 

Crawls  in  the  gloom  of  baffled  hate  beyond  the  field 
of  fight ! 


164 


X. 

O   glorious  Empress   of  the  Main  !  from   out  thy 

storied  spires 
Thou  well  mayst  peal  thy  bells  of  joy,  and  light  thy 

festal  fires, — 
Since  Heaven  this  day  hath  striven  for  thee,  hath 

nerved  thy  dauntless  sons, 
And   thou   in   clear-eyed   faith    hast    seen    God's 

angels  near  the  guns  ! 

PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE. 


TWILIGHT  ON  SUMTER. 

\In  the  spring  and  summer  of  1863,  Fort  Sumter,  in 
possession  of  the  Confederates  since  the  surrender  of  Major 
Anderson,  two  years  before,  was  bombarded  by  the  Federal 
fleet,  and  by  the  artillery  on  Morris  Island,  until  reduced 
almost  to  ruins.] 

STILL  and  dark  along  the  sea 

Sumter  lay ; 
A  light  was  overhead, 
As  from  burning  cities  shed, 
And  the  clouds  were  battle-red, 

Far  away. 
Not  a  solitary  gun 
Left  to  tell  the  fort  had  won 

Or  lost  the  day  ! 
Nothing  but  the  tattered  rag 
Of  the  drooping  rebel  flag, 
And  the  sea-birds  screaming  round  it  in  their  play. 

How  it  woke  one  April  morn, 

Fame  shall  tell; 

As  from  Moultrie,  close  at  hand, 
And  the  batteries  on  the  land, 
Round  its  faint  but  fearless  band 

Shot  and  shell 


IBS 


Raining  hid  the  doubtful  light ; 
But  they  fought  the  hopeless  fight 

Long  and  well, 

(Theirs  the  glory,  ours  the  shame !) 
Till  the  walls  were  wrapt  in  flame, 
Then  their  flag  was  proudly  struck,  and  Sumter  fell ! 

Now — oh,  look  at  Sumter  now, 

In  the  gloom  ! 

Mark  its  scarred  and  shattered  walls, 
(Hark  !  the  ruined  rampart  falls  !) 
There's  a  justice  that  appalls 

In  its  doom ; 

For  this  blasted  spot  of  earth 
Where  rebellion  had  its  birth 

Is  its  tomb  ! 

And  when  Sumter  sinks  at  last 
From  the  heavens,  that  shrink  aghast, 
Hell  shall  rise  in  grim  derision  and  make  room  ! 
RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD. 


KEENAN'S  CHARGE. 

[At  the  battle  of  Chancellorsville,  Va.,  May  2,  1863, 
it  became  necessary  to  bring  a  Federal  battery  into  posi 
tion  to  resist  a  sudden  onset  by  Stonewall  Jackson.  To 
gain  a  few  minutes'  time,  Major  Peter  Keenan,  of  the 
Eighth  Pennsylvania  Cavalry,  was  ordered  to  charge  the 
enemy  ;  and,  with  his  four  hundred  men,  he  rode  against 
ten  thousand,  in  a  charge  as  gallant  as  that  of  the  Light 
Brigade, ,] 

BY  the  shrouded  gleam  of  the  western  skies, 
Brave  Keenan  looked  in  Pleasonton's  eyes 
For  an  instant — clear,  and  cool,  and  still ; 
Then,  with  a  smile,  he  said  :  "  I  will." 


"  Cavalry,  charge  !  "     Not  a  man  of  them  shrank. 

Their  sharp,  full  cheer,  from  rank  on  rank, 

Rose  joyously,  with  a  willing  breath — 

Rose  like  a  greeting  hail  to  death. 

Then  forward  they  sprang,  and  spurred  and  clashed ; 

Shouted  the  officers,  crimson-sashed  ; 

Rode  well  the  men,  each  brave  as  his  fellow, 

In  their  faded  coats  of  the  blue  and  yellow  ; 

And  above  in  the  air,  with  an  instinct  true. 

Like  a  bird  of  war  their  pennon  flew. 

With  clank  of  scabbards  and  thunder  of  steeds, 
And  blades  that  shine  like  sunlit  reeds, 
And  strong  brown  faces  bravely  pale 
For  fear  their  proud  attempt  shall  fail. 
Three  hundred  Pennsylvanians  close 
On  twice  ten  thousand  gallant  foes. 

Line  after  line  the  troopers  came 

To  the  edge  of  the  wood  that  was  ring'd  with  flame ; 

Rode  in  and  sabred  and  shot — and  fell : 

Nor  came  one  back  his  wounds  to  tell. 

And  full  in  the  midst  rose  Keenan,  tall 

In  the  gloom,  like  a  martyr  awaiting  his  fall, 

While  the  circle-stroke  of  his  sabre,  swung 

'Round  his  head,  like  a  halo  there,  luminous  hung. 

Line  after  line  ;  ay,  whole  platoons, 

Struck  dead  in  their  saddles,  of  brave  dragoons 

By  the  maddened  horses  were  onward  borne 

And  into  the  vortex  flung,  trampled  and  torn  ; 

As  Keenan  fought  with  his  men,  side  by  side. 

So  they  rode,  till  there  were  no  more  to  ride. 

But  over  them,  lying  there,  shattered  and  mute, 
What  deep  echo  rolls  ? —     !Tis  a  death  salute 
From  the  cannon  in  place  ;  for,  heroes,  you  braved 
Your  fate  not  in  vain  :  the  army  was  saved  ! 

Over  them  now — year  following  year — 
Over  their  graves,  the  pine-cones  fall, 


And  the  whippoorwill  chants  his  spectre-call ; 
But  they  stir  not  again  :  they  raise  no  cheer : 
They  have  ceased.     But   their   glory   shall   never 

cease, 

Nor  their  light  be  quenched  in  the  light  of  peace. 
The  rush  of  their  charge  is  resounding  still, 
That  saved  the  army  at  Chancellorsville. 

GEORGE  PARSONS  LATHROP. 


DEATH  OF  STONEWALL  JACKSON. 

\On  the  evening  of  the  first  day's  fight  at  Chancellors 
ville,  I'a.,  May  2,  1863,  where  Stonewall  "Jackson  had  ac 
complished  his  famous  flank  movement  around  the  Union 
right,  he  rode  out  to  inspect  the  ground  for  the  morrow's 
battle,  and  in  the  darkness  was  surprised  and  shot  by  some 
o/  his  own  pickets.  He  died  on  the  loth  of  May  following.] 

NOT  'mid  the  lightning  of  the  stormy  fight, 

Not  in  the  rush  upon  the  vandal  foe, 
Did  kingly  Death,  with  his  resistless  might, 
Lay  the  great  leader  low. 

His  warrior  soul  its  earthly  shackles  broke 
In  the  full  sunshine  of  a  peaceful  town  ; 
When  all  the  storm  was  hushed,  the  trusty  oak 
That  propped  our  cause  went  down. 

Though  his  alone  the  blood  that  flecks  the  ground, 

Recording  all  his  grand,  heroic  deeds, 
Freedom  herself  is  writhing  with  the  wound, 
And  all  the  country  bleeds. 

He  entered  not  the  Nation's  Promised  Land 

At  the  red  belching  of  the  cannon's  mouth; 
But  broke  the  House  of  Bondage  with  his  hand — 
The  Moses  of  the  South  ! 


O  gracious  God  !  not  gainless  is  the  loss  : 

A  glorious  sunbeam  gilds  thy  sternest  frown; 
And  while  his  country  staggers  with  the  Cross, 
He  rises  with  the  Crown. 

HARRY  L.  FLASH. 


"THE   BRIGADE  MUST  NOT  KNOW,  SIR  !" 

"  WHO'VE  ye  got  there?" — "  Only  a  dying  brother, 

Hurt  in  the  front  just  now  " 
"  Good  boy  !  he'll  do.     Someoooy  tell  his  mother 

Where  he  was  killed,  and  how." 

"Whom  have  you  there?" — "A  crippled  courier, 

Major, 

Shot  by  mistake,  we  hear. 
He   was  with    Stonewall." — "  Cruel  work  they've 

made  here ; 
Quick  with  him  to  the  rear !" 

"  Well,  who   comes   next  ?" — "  Doctor,  speak  low, 

speak  low,  sir ; 
Don't  let  the  men  find  out ! 
It's  STONEWALL  !" — "  God  !" — "  The  brigade  must 

not  know,  sir, 
While  there's  a  foe  about !" 

Whom  have  we  here — shrouded  in  martial  manner, 

Crowned  with  a  martyr's  charm  ? 
A  grand  dead  hero,  in  a  living  banner, 
Born  of  his  heart  and  arm  : 

The   heart  whereon   his   cause   hung — see  how 

clingeth 

That  banner  to  his  bier  ! 
The  arm  wherewith  his  cause  struck — hark !  how 

ringeth 
His  trumpet  in  their  rear  ! 


IBS 


What  have  we  left  ?    His  glorious  inspiration, 

His  prayers  in  council  met. 
Living,  he  laid  the  first  stones  of  a  nation  ; 

And  dead,  he  builds  it  yet. 

J.  W.  PALMER. 


UNDER  THE  SHADE  OF  THE  TREES. 

[This  poem  is  founded  upon  the  following  incident,  taken 
from  an  account  of  Stonewall  Jackson 's  last  hours:  "A 
few  moments  before  his  death,  he  called  out  in  his  delirium, 
'  Order  A.  P.  Hill  to  prepare  for  action  ;  .  .  .  pass  the 
infantry  to  the  front  ;  .  .  .  tell  Major  Hawks  .  .  . ' 
Here  the  sentence  was  left  unfinished.  But  soon  after,  a 
siveet  smile  overspread  his  face,  and  he  murmured  quietly, 
with  an  air  of  relief,  '  Let  us  cross  the  river  and  rest 
under  the  shade  of  the  trees?  These  were  his  last  words."] 

WHAT  are  the  thoughts  that  are  stirring  his  breast  ? 

What  is  the  mystical  vision  he  sees  ? 

— "  Let  us  pass  over  the  river,  and  rest 

Under  the  shade  of  the  trees." 

Has  he  grown  sick  of  his  toils  and  his  tasks  ? 

Sighs  the  worn  spirit  for  respite  or  ease? 
Is  it  a  moment's  cool  halt  that  he  asks 
Under  the  shade  of  the  trees? 

Is  it  the  gurgle  of  waters  whose  flow 

Ofttime   has  come  to  him,  borne  on  the  breeze, 
Memory  listens  to,  lapsing  so  low, 
Under  the  shade  of  the  trees  ? 

Nay — though  the  rasp  of  the  flesh  was  so  sore, 

Faith,  that  had  yearnings  far  keener  than  these, 
Saw  the  soft  sheen  of  the  Thitherward  Shore, 
Under  the  shade  of  the  trees  ; — 


Caught  the  high  psalms  of  ecstatic  delight — 

Heard  the  harps  harping,  like  soundings  of  seas — 
Watched  earth's  assoilSd  ones  walking  in  white 
Under  the  shade  of  the  trees  ? 

Oh,  was  it  strange  he  should  pine  for  release, 

Touched  to  the  soul  with  such  transports  as  these, — 
He  who  so  needed  the  balsam  of  peace, 
Under  the  shade  of  the  trees  ? 

Yea,  it  was  noblest  for  him — it  was  best 

(Questioning  naught  of  our  Father's  decrees), 
There  to  pass  over  the  river  and  rest 
Under  the  shade  of  the  trees ! 

MARGARET  J.  PRESTON. 


THE  BLACK  REGIMENT. 
[Port  Hudson,  La.,  June,  1863.] 

DARK  as  the  clouds  of  even, 
Ranked  in  the  western  heaven, 
Waiting  the  breath  that  lifts 
All  the  dread  mass,  and  drifts 
Tempest  and  falling  brand 
Over  a  ruined  land  ; — 
So  still  and  orderly, 
Arm  to  arm,  knee  to  knee, 
Waiting  the  great  event, 
Stands  the  Black  Regiment. 

Down  the  long  dusky  line 
Teeth  gleam  and  eyeballs  shine ; 
And  the  bright  bayonet, 
Bristling  and  firmly  set, 
Flashed  with  a  purpose  grand, 
Long  ere  the  sharp  command 


Of  the  fierce  rolling  drum 
Told  them  their  time  had  come, 
Told  them  what  work  was  sent 
For  the  Black  Regiment. 

"  Now,"  the  flag-sergeant  cried, 
"  Though  death  and  hell  betide, 
Let  the  whole  nation  see 
If  we  are  fit  to  be 
Free  in  this  land  ;  or  bound 
Down,  like  the  whining  hound, — 
Bound  with  red  stripes  of  pain 
In  our  old  chains  again  !" 
Oh,  what  a  shout  there  went 
From  the  Black  Regiment ! 

"  Charge  /"  Trump  and  drum  awoke, 
Onward  the  bondmen  broke  ; 
Bayonet  and  sabre-stroke 
Vainly  opposed  their  rush. 
Through  the  wild  battle's  crush. 
With  but  one  thought  aflush, 
Driving  their  lords  like  chaff, 
In  the  guns'  mouths  they  laugh  ; 
Or  at  the  slippery  brands 
Leaping  with  open  hands, 
Down  they  tear  man  and  horse, 
Down  in  their  awful  course  ; 
Trampling  with  bloody  heel 
Over  the  crashing  steel, 
All  their  eyes  forward  bent, 
Rushed  the  Black  Regiment. 

"  Freedom  !"  their  battle-cry — 
"  Freedom  !  or  leave  to  die  !" 
Ah  !  and  they  meant  the  word, 
Not  as  with  us  'tis  heard, 
Not  a  mere  party  shout : 
They  gave  their  spirits  out ; 


Trusted  the  end  to  God, 
And  on  the  gory  sod 
Rolled  in  triumphant  blood. 

Glad  to  strike  one  free  blow, 
Whether  for  weal  or  woe  ; 
Glad  to  breathe  one  free  breath, 
Though  on  the  lips  of  death. 
Praying — alas  !  in  vain  ! — 
That  they  might  fall  again, 
So  they  could  once  more  see 
That  burst  to  liberty  ! 
This  was  what  "  freedom"  lent 
To  the  Black  Regiment. 

Hundreds  on  hundreds  fell ; 
But  they  are  resting  well ; 
Scourges  and  shackles  strong 
Never  shall  do  them  wrong. 

Oh,  to  the  living  few, 
Soldiers,  be  just  and  true! 
Hail  them  as  comrades  tried ; 
Fight  with  them  side  by  side  ; 
Never,  in  field  or  tent, 
Scorn  the  Black  Regiment. 

GEORGE  H.  BOKER. 


A   NAMELESS  GRAVE. 

"A  SOLDIER  of  the  Union  mustered  out," 
Is  the   inscription  on  an  unknown  grave 
At  Newport  News,  beside  the  salt-sea  wave, 
Nameless  and  dateless  ;  sentinel  or  scout 
Shot  down  in  skirmish,  or  disastrous  rout 
Of  battle,  when  the  loud  artillery  drave 
Its  iron  wedges  through  the  ranks  of  brave 
And  doomed  battalions,  storming  the  redoubt. 


173 


Thou  unknown  hero  sleeping  by  the  sea 
In  thy  forgotten  grave  !  with  secret  shame 
I  feel  my  pulses  beat,  my  forehead  burn, 
When  I  remember  thou  hast  given  for  me 
All  that  thou  hadst,  thy  life,  thy  very  name, 
And  I  can  give  thee  nothing  in  return. 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


MISSING. 

IN  the  cool  sweet  hush  of  a  wooded  nook, 

Where  the    May-buds    sprinkle  the    green  old 

mound, 
And  the  winds  and  the  birds  and  the  limpid  brook 

Murmur  their  dreams  with  a  drowsy  sound, 
Who  lies  so  still  in  the  plushy  moss. 

With  his  pale  cheek  pressed  on  a  breezy  pillow, 
Couched  where  the  lights  and  the  shadows  cross 

Through  the  flickering  fringe  of  the  willow, — 
Who  lies,  alas ! 

So  still,  so  chill,  in  the  whispering  grass  ? 

A  soldier,  clad  in  the  Zouave  dress, 

A  bright-haired  man,  with  his  lips  apart, — 
One  hand  thrown  up  o'er  his  frank,  dead  face, 

And  the  other  clutching  his  pulseless  heart, — 
Lies  there  in  the  shadows  cool  and  dim, 

His  musket  swept  by  a  trailing  bough, 
With  a  careless  grace  in  each  tranquil  limb, 

And  a  wound  in  his  manly  brow — 
A  wound,  alas  ! 

Whence  the  warm  blood  drips  in  the  quiet  grass. 

And  the  violets  peer  from  their  dusky  beds, 
With  a  tearful  dew  in  their  great  pure  eyes ; 

And  the  lilies  quiver  their  shining  heads, 
Their  pale  lips  full  of  a  sad  surprise ; 


174 


And  the  lizard  darts  through  the  glistening  fern, 
And  the  squirrel  rustles  the  branches  hoary, 

Strange  birds  fly  out  with  a  cry,  to  bathe 
Their  wings  in  the  sunset  glory  ; 
While  the  shadows  pass 
O'er  the  quiet  face  and  the  dewy  grass. 

God  pity  the  bride  who  waits  at  home 

With  her  lily  cheeks  and  her  violet  eyes, 
Dreaming  the  sweet  old  dream  of  love, 

While  her  lover  is  walking  in  Paradise. 
God  strengthen  her  heart  as  the  days  go  by, 

And  the  long,  drear  nights  of  her  vigil  follow  ; 
Nor  bird  nor  wind  nor  whispering  grass 

May  breathe  the  tale  of  the  hollow  : 
Alas  !  alas  ! 

The  secret  is  safe  in  the  woodland  grass. 

ANONYMOUS  (Southern). 


SOMEBODY'S   DARLING. 

INTO  a  ward  of  the  whitewashed  halls 

WThere  the  dead  and  the  dying  lay, 
Wounded  by  bayonets,  shells,  and  balls, 

Somebody's  darling  was  borne  one  day — 
Somebody's  darling,  so  young  and  brave ; 

Wearing  yet  on  his  sweet  pale  face — 
Soon  to  be  hid  in  the  dust  of  the  grave — 

The  lingering  light  of  his  boyhood's  grace. 

Matted  and  damp  are  the  curls  of  gold 

Kissing  the  snow  of  that  fair  young  brow, 
Pale  are  the  lips  of  delicate  mould — 

Somebody's  darling  is  dying  now. 
Back  from  his  beautiful  blue-veined  brow 

Brush  his  wandering  waves  of  gold  ; 
Cross  his  hands  on  his  bosom  now — 

Somebody's  darling  is  still  and  cold. 


ITS 


Kiss  him  once  for  somebody's  sake, 

Murmur  a  prayer  soft  and  low  ; 
One  bright  curl  from  its  fair  mates  take  — 

They  were  somebody's  pride,  you  know. 
Somebody's  hand  hath  rested  here  — 

Was  it  a  mother's,  soft  and  white  ? 
Or  have  the  lips  of  a  sister  fair 

Been  baptized  in  their  waves  of  light  ? 

God  knows  best.    He  has  somebody's  love, 

Somebody's  heart  enshrined  him  there, 
Somebody  wafts  his  name  above, 

Night  and  morn,  on  the  wings  of  prayer. 
Somebody  wept  when  he  marched  away, 

Looking  so  handsome,  brave,  and  grand  : 
Somebody's  kiss  on  his  forehead  lay, 

Somebody  clung  to  his  parting  hand. 

Somebody's  watching  and  waiting  for  him, 

Yearning  to  hold  him  again  to  her  heart; 
And  there  he  lies  with  his  blue  eyes  dim, 

And  the  smiling,  childlike  lips  apart. 
Tenderly  bury  the  fair  young  dead  — 

Pausing  to  drop  on  his  grave  a  tear. 
Carve  on  the  wooden  slab  o'er  his  head  : 

"  Somebody's  darling  slumbers  here." 

MARIA  LA  COSTE  (Southern). 


"HE'LL  SEE  IT  WHEN  HE  WAKES." 

[/»  one  of  the  battles  in  Virginia,  a  gallant  young  Missis- 
sippian  had  fallen  ;  and  at  night,  just  before  burying  him, 
there  came  a  letter  from  his  betrothed.  One  of  the  burial- 
group  took  the  letter  and  laid  it  upon  the  breast  of  the  dead 
soldier,  with  the  words  :  "  Bury  it  with  him.  He '//  see  it 
when  he  waAes."] 

AMID  the  clouds  of  battle-smoke 

The  sun  had  died  away, 
And  where  the  storm  of  battle  broke 

A  thousand  warriors  lay. 


ire 


A  band  of  friends  upon  the  field 
Stood  round  a  youthful  form, 
Who,  when  the  war-cloud's  thunder  pealed, 
Had  perished  in  the  storm. 

Upon  his  forehead,  on  his  hair, 

The  coming  moonlight  breaks, 
And  each  dear  brother  standing  there 
A  tender  farewell  takes. 

But  ere  they  laid  him  in  his  home 

There  came  a  comrade  near, 
And  gave  a  token  that  had  come 

From  her  the  dead  held  dear. 
A  moment's  doubt  upon  them  pressed, 

Then  one  the  letter  takes, 
And  lays  it  low  upon  his  breast— 
"  He'll  see  it  when  he  wakes." 

O  thou  who  dost  in  sorrow  wait, 

Whose  heart  with  anguish  breaks, 
Though  thy  dear  message  came  too  late, 
"  He'll  see  it  when  he  wakes." 

No  more  amid  the  fiery  storm 

Shall  his  strong  arm  be  seen  ; 
No  more  his  young  and  manly  form 

Tread  Mississippi's  green ; 
And  e'en  thy  tender  words  of  love — 

The  words  affection  speaks — 
Came  all  too  late  ;  but  oh  !  thy  love 
"  Will  see  them  when  he  wakes." 
No  jars  disturb  his  gentle  rest, 
No  noise  his  slumber  breaks, 
But  thy  words  sleep  upon  his  breast — 
"  He'll  see  them  when  he  wakes." 

FRANK  LEE. 


ITT 


A  GEORGIA  VOLUNTEER. 

FAR  up  the  lonely  mountain-side 

My  wandering  footsteps  led  ; 
The  moss  lay  thick  beneath  my  feet, 

The  pine  sighed  overhead. 
The  trace  of  a  dismantled  fort 

Lay  in  the  forest  nave, 
And  in  the  shadow  near  my  path 

I  saw  a  soldier's  grave. 

The  bramble  wrestled  with  the  weed 

Upon  the  lowly  mound, 
The  simple  headboard,  rudely  writ, 

Had  rotted  to  the  ground  ; 
I  raised  it  with  a  reverent  hand, 

From  dust  its  words  to  clear ; 
But  time  had  blotted  all  but  these  : 

"  A  Georgia  Volunteer." 

I  saw  the  toad  and  scaly  snake 

From  tangled  covert  start, 
And  hide  themselves  among  the  weeds 

Above  the  dead  man's  heart ; 
But  undisturbed,  in  sleep  profound, 

Unheeding,  there  he  lay ; 
His  coffin  but  the  mountain  soil, 

His  shroud,  Confederate  gray. 

I  heard  the  Shenandoah  roll 
Along  the  vale  below, 

I  saw  the  Alleghanies  rise 
Toward  the  realms  of  snow. 

The  "  Valley  Campaign  "  rose  to  mind- 
Its  leader's  name — and  then 

I  knew  the  sleeper  had  been  one 
Of  Stonewall  Jackson's  men. 


ire 


Yet  whence  he  came,  what  lip  shall  say — 

Whose  tongue  will  ever  tell 
What  desolated  hearths  and  hearts 

Have  been  because  he  fell  ? 
What  sad-eyed  maiden  braids  her  hair — 

Her  hair  which  he  held  dear? 
One  lock  of  which,  perchance,  lies  with 

The  Georgia  Volunteer ! 

What  mother,  with  long-watching  eyes 

And  white  lips  cold  and  dumb, 
Waits  with  appalling  patience  for 

Her  darling  boy  to  come  ? 
Her  boy  !  whose  mountain  grave  swells  up 

But  one  of  many  a  scar 
Cut  on  the  face  of  our  fair  land 

By  gory-handed  war. 

What  fights  he  fought,  what  wounds  he  wore, 

Are  all  unknown  to  fame  ; 
Remember,  on  his  lonely  grave 

There  is  not  even  a  name  ! 
That  he  fought  well  and  bravely  too, 

And  held  his  country  dear, 
We  know,  else  he  had  never  been 

A  Georgia  Volunteer. 

He  sleeps — what  need  to  question  now 

If  he  were  wrong  or  right  ? 
He  knows,  e'er  this,  whose  cause  was  just 

In  God  the  Father's  sight. 
He  wields  no  warlike  weapons  now, 

Returns  no  foeman's  thrust ; 
Who  but  a  coward  would  revile 

An  honest  soldier's  dust  ? 

Roll,  Shenandoah,  proudly  roll 

Adown  thy  rocky  glen  ; 
Above  thee  lies  the  grave  of  one 

Of  Stonewall  Jackson's  men. 


Beneath  the  cedar  and  the  pine, 

In  solitude  austere, 
Unknown,  unnamed,  forgotten,  lies 

A  Georgia  Volunteer. 

MARY  ASHLEY  TOWNSEND. 


BY  THE  POTOMAC. 

THE  soft  new  grass  is  creeping  o'er  the  graves 

By  the  Potomac  ;  and  the  crisp  ground-flower 

Lifts  its  blue  cup  to  catch  the  passing  shower  ; 

The  pine-cone  ripens,  and  the  long  moss  waves 

Its  tangled  gonfalons  above  our  braves. 

Hark,  what  a  burst  of  music  from  yon  bower ! — 

The  Southern  nightingale  that,  hour  by  hour, 

In  its  melodious  summer  madness  raves. 

Ah,  with  what  delicate  touches  of  her  hand, 

With  what  sweet  voices,  Nature  seeks  to  screen 

The  awful  Crime  of  this  distracted  land, — 

Sets  her  birds  singing,  while  she  spreads  her  green 

Mantle  of  velvet  where  the  Murdered  lie, 

As  if  to  hide  the  horror  from  God's  eye. 

THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 


THE  VOICES  OF  THE  GUNS. 

WITHIN  a  green  and  shadowy  wood, 
Circled  with  Spring,  alone  I  stood  : 
The  nook  was  peaceful,  fair,  and  good. 

The  wild-plum  blossoms  lured  the  bees, 
The  birds  sang  madly  in  the  trees, 
Magnolia  scents  were  on  the  breeze. 


IBO 


All  else  was  silent ;  but  the  ear 
Caught  sounds  of  distant  bugle  clear, 
And  heard  the  bullets  whistle  near, — 

When  from  the  winding  river's  shore 

The  Rebel  guns  began  to  roar, 

And  ours  to  answer,  thundering  o'er ; 

And,  echoed  from  the  wooded  hill, 

Repeated  and  repeated  still, 

Through  all  my  soul  they  seemed  to  thrill ; 

For,  as  their  rattling  storm  awoke, 

And  loud  and  fast  the  discord  broke, 

In  rude  and  trenchant  words  they  spoke  : 

"  We  hate  !"  boomed  fiercely  o'er  the  tide; 
"We  fear  not !"  from  the  other  side  ; 
"  We  strike  /"  the  Rebel  guns  replied. 

Quick  roared  our  answer  :  "  We  defend  !" 
"  Our  rights  !"  the  battle-sounds  contend ; 
"  The  rights  of  all !"  we  answer  send. 

"  We  conquer  /"  rolled  across  the  wave  ; 
"  We  persevere  !"  our  answer  gave  ; 
"  Our  chivalry  !"  they  wildly  rave. 

"  Ours  are  the  brave  /"     "  Be  ours  the  free  !' 
"  Be  ours  the  slave,  the  masters  we  f" 
"  On  us  their  blood  no  more  shall  be!" 

As  when  some  magic  word  is  spoken 
By  which  a  wizard  spell  is  broken, 
There  was  a  silence  at  that  token. 

The  wild  birds  dared  once  more  to  sing, 
I  heard  the  pine  bough's  whispering, 
And  trickling  of  a  silver  spring. 

Then,  crashing  forth  with  smoke  and  din, 
Once  more  the  rattling  sounds  begin ; 
Our  iron  lips  roll  forth  :  "  We  win  1" 


And  dull  and  wavering  in  the  gale 
That  rushed  in  gusts  across  the  vale 
Came  back  the  faint  reply:  "  We  fail!" 

And  then  a  word,  both  stern  and  sad, 

From  throat  of  huge  Columbiad  : 

"  Blind  fools  and  traitors  !     Ye  are  mad  !" 

Again  the  Rebel  answer  came, 

Muffled  and  slow,  as  if  in  shame  : 

"  All,  all  is  lost !"  in  smoke  and  flame. 

Now  bold  and  strong  and  stern  as  Fate 
The  Union  guns  sound  forth  :  "  We  wait ! 
Faint  comes  the  distant  cry  :  "Too  late !" 

"  Return,  return  !"  our  cannon  said  ; 

And,  as  the  smoke  rolled  overhead, 

"  We  dare  not !"  was  the  answer  dread. 

Then  came  a  sound  both  loud  and  clear, 
A  Godlike  word  of  hope  and  cheer : 
"Forgiveness!"  echoed  far  and  near; 

As  when  beside  some  death-bed  still 
We  watch,  and  wait  God's  solemn  will, 
A  bluebird  warbles  his  soft  trill. 

I  clenched  my  teeth  at  that  blest  word, 
And,  angry,  muttered,  "  Not  so,  Lord  ! 
The  only  answer  is  the  sword  !" 

I  thought  of  Shiloh's  tainted  air, 

Of  Richmond's  prisons,  foul  and  bare, 

And  murdered  heroes,  young  and  fair, — 

Of  block  and  lash  and  overseer, 
And  dark,  mild  faces  pale  with  fear, 
Of  baying  hell-hounds  panting  near. 

But  then  the  gentle  story  told 
My  childhood  in  the  days  of  old 
Rang  out  its  lessons  manifold. 


O  prodigal  and  lost !  arise, 

And  read  the  welcome  blest  that  lies 

In  a  kind  Father's  patient  eyes ! 

Thy  elder  brother  grudges  not 

The  lost  and  found  should  share  his  lot, 

And  wrong  in  concord  be  forgot. 

Thus  mused  I,  as  the  hours  went  by, 
Till  the  relieving  guard  drew  nigh, 
And  there  was  challenge  and  reply. 

And  as  I  hastened  back  to  line, 

It  seemed  an  omen  half  divine 

That  "  Concord  "  was  the  countersign. 

ANONYMOUS. 


MUSIC  IN  CAMP. 

Two  armies  covered  hill  and  plain, 
Where  Rappahannock's  waters 

Ran  deeply  crimsoned  with  the  stain 
Of  battle's  recent  slaughters. 

The  summer  clouds  lay  pitched  like  tents 

In  meads  of  heavenly  azure ; 
And  each  dread  gun  of  the  elements 

Slept  in  its  high  embrasure. 

The  breeze  so  softly  blew,  it  made 

No  forest  leaf  to  quiver ; 
And  the  smoke  of  the  random  cannonade 

Rolled  slowly  from  the  river. 

And  now  where  circling  hills  looked  down 

With  cannon  grimly  planted, 
O'er  listless  camp  and  silent  town 

The  golden  sunset  slanted. 


103 


When  on  the  fervid  air  there  came 
A  strain,  now  rich,  now  tender  ; 

The  music  seemed  itself  aflame 
With  day's  departing  splendor. 

A  Federal  band,  which  eve  and  morn 
Played  measures  brave  and  nimble, 

Had  just  struck  up  with  flute  and  horn 
And  lively  clash  of  cymbal. 

Down  flocked  the  soldiers  to  the  banks  ; 

Till,  margined  by  its  pebbles, 
One  wooded  shore  was  blue  with  "  Yanks," 

And  one  was  gray  with  "  Rebels." 

Then  all  was  still  ;  and  then  the  band, 
With  movement  light  and  tricksy, 

Made  stream  and  forest,  hill  and  strand, 
Reverberate  with  "  Dixie." 

The  conscious  stream,  with  burnished  glow, 
Went  proudly  o'er  its  pebbles, 

But  thrilled  throughout  its  deepest  flow 
With  yelling  of  the  Rebels. 

Again  a  pause  ;  and  then  again 

The  trumpet  pealed  sonorous, 
And  "  Yankee  Doodle"  was  the  strain 

To  which  the  shore  gave  chorus. 

The  laughing  ripple  shoreward  flew 

To  kiss  the  shining  pebbles  ; 
Loud  shrieked  the  swarming  Boys  in  Blue 

Defiance  to  the  Rebels. 

And  yet  once  more  the  bugle  sang 

Above  the  stormy  riot  ; 
No  shout  upon  the  evening  rang  — 

There  reigned  a  holy  quiet. 


The  sad,  slow  stream,  its  noiseless  flood 
Poured  o'er  the  glistening  pebbles  ; 

All  silent  now  the  Yankees  stood, 
All  silent  stood  the  Rebels. 

No  unresponsive  soul  had  heard 

That  plaintive  note's  appealing, 
So  deeply  "  Home,  Sweet  Home  "  had  stirred 

The  hidden  founts  of  feeling. 

Or  Blue,  or  Gray,  the  soldier  sees, 

As  by  the  wand  of  fairy, 
The  cottage  'neath  the  live  oak  trees, 

The  cabin  by  the  prairie. 

Or  cold,  or  warm,  his  native  skies 

Bend  in  their  beauty  o'er  him  ; 
Seen  through  the  tear-mist  in  his  eyes, 

His  loved  ones  stand  before  him. 

As  fades  the  iris  after  rain 

In  April's  tearful  weather, 
The  vision  vanished  as  the  strain 

And  daylight  died  together. 

But  Memory,  waked  by  Music's  art, 

Expressed  in  simple  numbers, 
Subdued  the  sternest  Yankee's  heart, 

Made  light  the  Rebel's  slumbers. 

And  fair  the  form  of  Music  shines — 

That  bright  celestial  creature — 
Who  still  'mid  War's  embattled  lines 

Gave  this  one  touch  of  Nature. 

JOHN  R.  THOMPSON. 


IBS 


"HOW  ARE  YOU,  SANITARY?" 

[  Thf  U.  S.  Sanitary  Commission  was  a  benevolent  or 
ganization,  supported  by  contributions  from  the  Northern 
States,  which  did  most  efficient  work  for  the  soldiers  in 
field  and  hospital,  sending  its  trained  nurses  and  supplies 
cf  medicines  and  food  wherever  there  was  sickness  or  suf 
fering.} 

DOWN  the  picket-guarded  lane 
Rolled  the  comfort-laden  wain, 
Cheered  by  shouts  that  shook  the  plain, 

Soldier-like  and  merry : 
Phrases  such  as  camps  may  teach, 
Sabre-cuts  of  Saxon  speech, 
Such  as  "  Bully  !"  "  Them's  the  peach  !" 

"  Wade  in,  Sanitary  !" 

Right  and  left  the  caissons  drew 
As  the  car  went  lumbering  through, 
Quick  succeeding  in  review 

Squadrons  military ; 
Sunburnt  men  with  beards  like  frieze, 
Smooth-faced  boys,  and  cries  like  these  . 
"  U.  S.  San.  Com."  "  That's  the  cheese  f 

"  Pass  in,  Sanitary  !" 

In  such  cheer  it  struggled  on 
Till  the  battle  front  was  won  ; 
Then  the  car,  its  journey  done, 

Lo  !  was  stationary ; 
And  where  bullets  whistling  fly 
Came  the  sadder,  fainter  cry  : 
"  Help  us,  brothers,  ere  we  die  ! — 

Save  us,  Sanitary !" 

Such  the  work.     The  phantom  flies, 
Wrapped  in  battle-clouds  that  rise  ; 
But  the  brave — whose  dying  eyes, 
Veiled  and  visionary, 


IBB 


See  the  jasper  gates  swung  wide, 
See  the  parted  throng  outside  — 
Hears  the  voice  to  those  who  ride  : 
"  Pass  in,  Sanitary  !" 

BRET  HARTE. 


GETTYSBURG. 

[July  i,  2,  and 3,  1863.] 

WAVE,  wave  your  glorious  battle-flags,  brave  sol 
diers  of  the  North, 
And  from  the  field  your  arms  have  won  to-day  go 

proudly  forth  ! 
For  now,  O  comrades  dear  and  leal — from  whom 

no  ills  could  part, 
Through  the  long  years  of   hopes  and  fears,  the 

nation's  constant  heart — 
Men  who  have  driven  so  oft  the  foe,  so  oft  have 

striven  in  vain, 
Yet  ever  in  the  perilous  hour  have  crossed  his  path 

again, — 
At  last  we  have  our  heart's  desire,  from  them  we 

met  have  wrung 
A  victory  that  round  the  world  shall  long  be  told 

and  sung! 
It  was  the  memory  of  the  past  that  bore  us  through 

the  fray, 
That  gave  the  grand  old  Army  strength  to  conquer 

on  this  day ! 

Oh,  now  forget  how  dark  and  red  Virginia's  rivers 

flow, 
The  Rappahannock's  tangled  wilds,  the  glory  and 

the  woe ; 


jar 


The  fever-hung  encampments,   where  our  dying 

knew  full  sore 
How  sweet  the  north-wind  to  the  cheek  it  soon  shall 

cool  no  more ; 
The  fields  we  fought,  and  gained,  and  lost ;  the 

lowland  sun  and  rain 
That  wasted  us,  that  bleached  the  bones  of  our 

unburied  slain ! 
There  was  no  lack  of  foes  to  meet,  of  deaths  to  die 

no  lack, 
And  all  the  hawks  of  heaven  learned  to  follow  on 

our  track ; 
But  henceforth,    hovering    southward,   their  flight 

shall  mark  afar 
The  paths  of  yon  retreating  hosts  that  shun  the 

northern  star. 

At  night,  before  the  closing  fray,  when  all  the  front 

was  still, 

We  lay  in  bivouac  along  the  cannon-crested  hill. 
Ours  was  the  dauntless  Second  Corps  ;  and  many  a 

soldier  knew 
How  sped  the  fight,  and  sternly  thought  of  what 

was  yet  to  do. 
Guarding  the  centre  there,  we  lay,  and  talked  with 

bated  breath 
Of  Buford's   stand   beyond   the  town,   of   gallant 

Reynolds'  death, 

Of  cruel  retreats  through  pent-up  streets  by  mur 
derous  valleys  swept, — 
How  well  the  Stone,  the  Iron,  brigades  their  bloody 

outposts  kept  : 
'Twas  for  the  Union,  for  the  Flag,  they  perished, 

heroes  all, 
And  we  swore  to  conquer  in  the  end,  or  even  like 

them  to  fall. 

And  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth  the  tale  of  that 
grim  day  just  done. 


IBB 


The  fight  by  Round  Top's  craggy  spur — of  all  the 

deadliest  one ; 
It  saved  the  left :  but  on  the  right  they  pressed  us 

back  too  well, 
And  like  a  field  in  Spring  the  ground  was  ploughed 

with  shot  and  shell. 
There  was  the  ancient  graveyard,  its  hummocks 

crushed  and  red, 
And  there,  between  them,  side  by  side,  the  wounded 

and  the  dead  : 
The   mangled  corpses  fallen  above — the  peaceful 

dead  below, 
Laid  in  their  graves,  to  slumber  here,  a  score  of 

years  ago ; 
It  seemed  their  waking,  wandering  shades   were 

asking  of  our  slain, 
What  brought  such  hideous  tumult  now  where  they 

so  still  had  lain  ! 

Bright    rose  the  sun   of  Gettysburg  that   morrow 

morning-tide, 
And  call  of  trump  and  roll  of  drum  from  height  to 

height  replied. 
Hark !  from  the  east  already  goes  up  the  rattling 

din ; 
The  Twelfth  Corps,  winning   back  their  ground, 

right  well  the  day  begin  ! 
They  whirl  fierce  Ewell  from  their  front !     Now  we 

of  the  Second  pray, 
As  right  and  left  the  brunt  have  borne,  the  centre 

might  to-day. 

But  all  was  still  from  hill  to  hill  for  many  a  breath 
less  hour, 
While  for  the   coming  battle-shock  Lee   gathered 

in  his  power ; 
And  back  and  forth  our  leaders  rode,  who  knew  not 

rest  or  fear, 
And  along  the  lines,  where'er  they  came,  went  up 

the  ringing  cheer. 


'Twas  past  the  hour  of  nooning  ;  the  Summer  skies 
were  blue ; 

Behind  the  covering  timber  the  foe  was  hid  from 
view; 

So  fair  and  sweet  with  waving  wheat  the  pleasant 
valley  lay, 

It  brought  to  mind  our  Northern  homes  and  mead 
ows  far  away ; 

When  the  whole  western  ridge  at  once  was  fringed 
with  fire  and  smoke, 

Against  our  lines  from  sevenscore  guns  the  dread 
ful  tempest  broke ! 

Then  loud  our  batteries  answer,  and  far  along  the 
crest, 

And  to  and  fro  the  roaring  bolts  are  driven  east 
and  west ; 

Heavy  and  dark  around  us  glooms  the  stifling  sul 
phur-cloud, 

A.nd  the  cries  of  mangled  men  and  horse  go  up 
beneath  its  shroud. 

The  guns  are  still :  the  end  is  nigh  :  we  grasp  our 

arms  anew ; 
O  now  let  every  heart  be  stanch  and  every  aim  be 

true! 
For  look  !  from  yonder  wood  that  skirts  the  valley's 

further  marge, 
The  flower  of  all  the  Southern  host  move  to  the  final 

charge. 
By  Heaven !  it  is  a  fearful  sight  to  see  their  double 

rank 
Come  with  a  hundred  battle-flags  —  a  mile   from 

flank  to  flank  ! 

Tramping  the  grain  to  earth,  they  come,  ten  thou 
sand  men  abreast ; 
Their   standards  wave — their   hearts    are  brave — 

they  hasten  not,  nor  rest, 
But  close  the  gaps  our  cannon  make,  and  onward 

press,  and  nigher, 


190 


And,  yelling  at  our  very  front,  again  pour  in  their 
fire! 

Now  burst  our  sheeted  lightnings  forth,  now  all 

our  wrath  has  vent ! 
They  die,  they  wither ;  through  and  through  their 

wavering  lines  are  rent. 
But  these  are  gallant,  desperate  men,  of  our  own 

race  and  land, 
Who  charge  anew,  and  welcome  death,  and  fight 

us  hand  to  hand  : 
Vain,  vain  !  give  way,  as  well  ye  may — the  crimson 

die  is  cast ! 
Their  bravest  leaders  bite  the  dust,  their  strength 

is  failing  fast ; 
They  yield,  they  turn,  they  fly  the  field  :  we  smite 

them  as  they  run  ; 
Their  arms,  their  colors,  are  our  spoil ;  the  furious 

fight  is  done ! 
Across  the  plain  we  follow  far  and  backward  push 

the  fray  : 
Cheer !  cheer  !  the  grand  old  Army  at  last  has  won 

the  day ! 

Hurrah !  the  day  has  won  the  cause !  No  gray- 
clad  host  henceforth 

Shall  come  with  fire  and  sword  to  tread  the  high 
ways  of  the  North ! 

'Twas  such  a  flood  as  when  ye  see,  along  the 
Atlantic  shore, 

The  great  Spring-tide  roll  grandly  in  with  swelling 
surge  and  roar  : 

It  seems  no  wall  can  stay  its  leap  or  balk  its  wild 
desire 

Beyond  the  bound  that  Heaven  hath  fixed  to  higher 
mount,  and  higher  ; 

But  now,  when  whitest  lifts  its  crest,  most  loud  its 
billows  call, 

Touched  by  the  Power  that  led  them  on,  they  fall, 
and  fall,  and  fall. 


m 


Even  thus,  unstayed  upon  his  course,  to  Gettysburg 

the  foe 
His  legions  led,  and  fought,  and  fled,  and  might  no 

further  go. 

Full  many  a  dark-eyed  Southern  girl  shall  weep  her 

lover  dead ; 
But  with  a  price  the  fight  was  ours — we  too  have 

tears  to  shed ! 
The  bells  that  peal  our  triumph  forth  anon  shall 

toll  the  brave, 

Above  whose  heads  the  cross  must  stand,  the  hill 
side  grasses  wave  ! 
Alas  !  alas  !  the  trampled  grass  shall  thrive  another 

year, 
The  blossoms  on  the  apple-boughs  with  each  new 

Spring  appear, 
But  when  our  patriot-soldiers  fall,  Earth  gives  them 

up  to  God  ; 
Though  their  souls  rise  in  clearer  skies,  their  forms 

are  as  the  sod  ; 
Only  their  names  and  deeds  are  ours — but,   for  a 

century  yet, 
The  dead  who  fell  at  Gettysburg  the  land  shall  not 

forget. 

God  send  us  peace !  and  where  for  aye  the  loved 

and  lost  recline 
Let  fall,  O  South,  your  leaves  of  palm — O  North, 

your  sprigs  of  pine  ! 
But  when,  with    every  ripened  year,  we  keep  the 

harvest-home, 
And  to  the  dear  Thanksgiving-feast  our  sons  and 

daughters  come — 
When  children's  children  throng  the  board  in  the 

old  homestead  spread, 
And  the  bent  soldier  of  these  wars  is  seated  at  the 

head, 

Long,  long  the  lads  shall  listen  to  hear  the  gray- 
beard  tell 


192 


Of  those  who  fought  at  Gettysburg  and  stood  their 

ground  so  well : 
"  Twas  for  the  Union  and  the  Flag,"  the  veteran 

shall  say, 
"  Our  grand  old  Army   held   the  ridge,  and   won 

that  glorious  day  !" 

EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN. 


AT  GETTYSBURG. 

LIKE  a  furnace  of  fire  blazed  the  midsummer  sun, 

When  to  saddle  we  leaped  at  the  order, 
Spurred  on  by  the  boom  of  the  deep-throated  gun 

That  told  of  the  foe  on  our  border. 
A  mist  in  our  rear  lay  Antietam's  dark  plain, 

And  thoughts  of  its  carnage  came  o'er  us  ; 
But  smiling  beyond  surged  the  fields  of  ripe  grain, 

And  we  swore  none  should  reap  it  before  us. 

That  night,  with  the  ensign  who  rode  by  my  side, 

On  the  camp's  dreary  edg«e  I  stood  picket, 
Our  ears  intent  lest  every  wind-rustle  hide 

A  foe's  stealthy  tread  in  the  thicket ; 
And  there,  while  we  watched  the  first  arrows  of 
dawn 

Through  the  veil  of  the  rising  mists  quiver, 
He  told  how  the  foeman  had  closed  in  upon 

His  home  by  the  Tennessee  River. 

He  spoke  of  a  sire  in  his  weakness  cut  down, 
With  his  last  breath  the  traitor-flag  scorning  ; 

And  his  brow  with  the  memory  grew  dark  with  a 

frown 
That  paled  the  red  light  of  the  morning. 


193 


For  days  he  had  followed  the  cowardly  band  ; 

And,  when  one  lagged  to  forage  or  trifle, 
Had  seared  in  his  forehead  the  deep  Mini6  brand, 

And  scored  a  fresh  notch  in  his  rifle. 

But  one  of  the  rangers  had  cheated  his  fate — 

For  him  he  would  search  the  world  over : 
Such  cool-plotting  passion,  such  keenness  of  hate, 

Ne'er  saw  I  in  woman-scorned  lover. 
Oh,  who  would  have  thought  that  beneath  those 
dark  curls 

Lurked  vengeance  as  sure  as  death-rattle ; 
Or  fancied  those  dreamy  eyes,  soft  as  a  girl's, 

Could  light  with  the  fury  of  battle  ? 

To  horse  !  pealed  the  bugle,  while  grape-shot  and 
shell 

Overhead  through  the  forest  were  crashing ; 
A  cheer  for  the  flag — and  the  summer  light  fell 

On  the  blades  from  a  thousand  sheaths  flashing. 
As  mad  ocean-waves  to  the  storm-revel  flock, 

So  on  we  dashed,  heedless  of  dangers  ; 
A  moment  our  long  line  surged  back  at  the  shock, 

Then  swept  through  the  ranks  of  the  Rangers. 

I  looked  for  the  ensign.     Ahead  of  his  troop, 

Pressing  on  through  the  conflict  infernal, 
His  torn  flag  furled  round  him  in  festoon  and  loop, 

He  spurred  to  the  side  of  his  colonel. 
And  his  clear  voice  rang  out,  as  I  saw  his  bright 
sword 

Through  shako  and  gaudy  plume  shiver, 
With,  "  This  for  the  last  of  the  murderous  horde  !" 

And,  "  This  for  the  home  by  the  river  1" 

At  evening,  returned  from  pursuit  of  the  foe, 
By  a  shell-shattered  caisson  we  found  him ; 

And  we  buried  him  there  in  the  sunset's  red  glow, 
With  the  dear  old  flag  knotted  around  him. 


194 


Yet    how  could    we  mourn,   when    each   drum's 

muffled  strain 

Told  of  foemen  hurled  back  in  disorder,  — 
When  we  knew  the  North  reaped  her  rich  harvest 

of  grain, 
Unharmed  by  a  foe  on  her  border  ! 

ANONYMOUS. 


JOHN  BURNS  OF  GETTYSBURG. 

\A  Union  officer  who  was  with  the  Eleventh  Corps  in  the 
battle  of  Gettysburg  says  :  "  During  the  first  day's  fight 
an  old  man  in  a  swallow-tailed  coat  and  battered  cylinder 
hat  came  stalking  across  the  fields  from  the  town,  and 
made  his  appearance  at  Colonel  Stone' 's  position.  With  a 
musket  in  his  hand  and  ammunition  in  his  pocket,  this  ven 
erable  citizen  asked  Colonel  Wister1!  permission  to  fight. 
Wister  directed  him  to  go  over  to  the  Iron  Brigade,  where 
he  would  be  sheltered  by  the  woods  ;  but  the  old  man  in 
sisted  on  going  forward  to  the  skirmish-line.  He  was  al 
lowed  to  do  so,  and  continued  firing  until  the  skirmishers 
retired,  when  he  was  the  last  man  to  leave.  He  afterward 
fought  with  the  Iron  Brigade,  where  he  was  three  times 
wounded.  7"his  patriotic  and  heroic  citizen  was  Constablt 
John  Burns  of  Gettysburg."} 

HAVE  you  heard  the  story  that  gossips  tell 

Of  Burns  of  Gettysburg  ? —  No  ?  Ah,  well : 

Brief  is  the  glory  that  hero  earns, 

Briefer  the  story  of  poor  John  Burns  ; 

He  was  the  fellow  who  won  renown — 

The  only  man  who  didn't  back  down 

When  the  rebels  rode  through  his  native  town ; 

But  held  his  own  in  the  fight  next  day, 

When  all  his  townsfolk  ran  away. 

That  was  in  July,  sixty-three, — 

The  very  day  that  General  Lee, 

Flower  of  Southern  chivalry, 

Baffled  and  beaten,  backward  reeled 

From  a  stubborn  Meade  and  a  barren  field. 


I  might  tell  how,  but  the  day  before, 
John  Burns  stood  at  his  cottage-door, 
Looking  down  the  village  street, 
Where,  in  the  shade  of  his  peaceful  vine, 
He  heard  the  low  of  his  gathered  kine, 
And  felt  their  breath  with  incense  sweet ; 
Or,  I  might  say,  when  the  sunset  burned 
The  old  farm  gable,  he  thought  it  turned 
The  milk  that  fell  like  a  babbling  Hood 
Into  the  milk-pail,  red  as  blood  ; 
Or,  how  he  fancied  the  hum  of  bees 
Were  bullets  buzzing  among  the  trees. 
But  all  such  fanciful  thoughts  as  these 
Were  strange  to  a  practical  man  like  Burns, 
Who  minded  only  his  own  concerns, 
Troubled  no  more  by  fancies  fine 
Than  one  of  his  calm-eyed,  long-tailed  kine,- 
Quite  old-fashioned  and  matter-of-fact, 
Slow  to  argue,  but  quick  to  act. 
That  was  the  reason,  as  some  folk  say, 
He  fought  so  well  on  that  terrible  day. 

And  it  was  terrible.     On  the  right 

Raged  for  hours  the  heady  fight, 

Thundered  the  battery's  double  bass — 

Difficult  music  for  men  to  face ; 

While  on  the  left — where  now  the  graves 

Undulate  like  the  living  waves 

That  all  the  day  unceasing  swept 

Up  to  the  pits  the  rebels  kept — 

Round-shot  ploughed  the  upland  glades, 

Sown  with  bullets,  reaped  with  blades ; 

Shattered  fences  here  and  there, 

Tossed  their  splinters  in  the  air ; 

The  very  trees  were  stripped  and  bare ; 

The  barns  that  once  held  yellow  grain 

Were  heaped  with  harvests  of  the  slain ; 

The  cattle  bellowed  on  the  plain, 

The  turkeys  screamed  with  might  and  main, 


And  brooding  barn-fowl  left  their  rest 
With  strange  shells  bursting  in  each  nest. 

Just  where  the  tide  of  battle  turns, 

Erect  and  lonely,  stood  old  John  Burns. 

How  do  you  think  the  man  was  dressed  ? 

He  wore  an  ancient,  long  buff  vest, 

Yellow  as  saffron — but  his  best ; 

And  buttoned  over  his  manly  breast 

Was  a  bright  blue  coat  with  a  rolling  collar, 

And  large  gilt  buttons — size  of  a  dollar, — 

With  tails  that  the  country-folk  called  "  swaller." 

He  wore  a  broad-brimmed,  bell-crowned  hat, 

White  as  the  locks  on  which  it  sat. 

Never  had  such  a  sight  been  seen 

For  forty  years  on  the  village  green, 

Since  old  John  Burns  was  a  country  beau, 

And  went  to  the  "  quiltings  "  long  ago. 

Close  at  his  elbows  all  that  day 

Veterans  of  the  Peninsula, 

Sunburnt  and  bearded,  charged  away ; 

And  striplings,  downy  of  lip  and  chin, — 

Clerks  that  the  Home-Guard  mustered  in, — 

Glanced,  as  they  passed,  at  the  hat  he  wore, 

Then  at  the  rifle  his  right  hand  bore ; 

And  hailed  him,  from  out  their  youthful  lore, 

With  scraps  of  a  slangy  repertoire  : 

"  How  are  you,  White  Hat  ?"  "  Put  her  through  I" 

"  Your  head's  level !"  and  "  Bully  for  you  !" 

Called  him, '  Daddy," — begged  he'd  disclose 

The  name  of  the  tailor  who  made  his  clothes, 

And  what  was  the  value  he  set  on  those  ; 

While  Burns,  unmindful  of  jeer  and  scoff, 

Stood  there  picking  the  rebels  off — 

With  his  long  brown  rifle  and  bell-crown  hat, 

And  the  swallow-tails  they  were  laughing  at. 

'Twas  but  a  moment,  for  that  respect 

Which  clothes  all  courage  their  voices  checked ; 


And  something  the  wildest  could  understand 
Spake  in  the  old  man's  strong  right  hand, 
And  his  corded  throat,  and  the  lurking  frown 
Of  his  eyebrows  under  his  old  bell-crown  ; 
Until,  as  they  gazed,  there  crept  an  awe 
Through  the  ranks  in  whispers,  and  some  men  saw, 
In  the  antique  vestments  and  long  white  hair, 
The  Past  of  the  Nation  in  battle  there ; 
And  some  of  the  soldiers  since  declare 
That  the  gleam  of  his  old  white  hat  afar, 
Like  the  crested  plume  of  the  brave  Navarre. 
That  day  was  their  oriflamme  of  war. 

Thus  raged  the  battle.     You  know  the  rest  ; 

How  the  rebels,  beaten,  and  backward  pressed, 

Broke  at  the  final  charge  and  ran. 

At  which  John  Burns — a  practical  man — 

Shouldered  his  rifle,  unbent  his  brows, 

And  then  went  back  to  his  bees  and  cows. 

That  is  the  story  of  old  John  Burns  ; 
This  is  the  moral  the  reader  learns : 
In  fighting  the  battle,  the  question's  whether 
You'll  show  a  hat  that's  white,  or  a  feather. 

BRET  HARTE. 


READING  THE  LIST. 

"  Is  there  any  news  of  the  war?"  she  said. 
M  Only  a  list  of  the  wounded  and  dead," 

Was  the  man's  reply, 

Without  lifting  his  eye 

To  the  face  of  the  woman  standing  by. 
"  'Tis  the  very  thing  I  want,"  she  said  ; 
"  Read  me  a  list  of  the  wounded  and  dead." 
He  read  the  list — 'twas  a  sad  array 
Of  the  wounded  and  killed  in  the  fatal  fray. 


In  the  very  midst,  was  a  pause  to  tell 
Of  a  gallant  youth  who  fought  so  well 
That  his  comrades  asked  :  "  Who  is  he,  pray  ?" 
"  The  only  son  of  the  Widow  Gray," 
Was  the  proud  reply 
Of  his  Captain  nigh  .... 
What  ails  the  woman  standing  near? 
Her  face  has  the  ashen  hue  of  fear ! 

"  Well,  well,  read  on  ;  is  he  wounded  ?     Quick  ! 

O  God  !  but  my  heart  is  sorrow-sick  ! 

Is  he  wounded  ?"    "  No  ;  he  fell,  they  say, 

Killed  outright  on  that  fatal  day !" 

But  see,  the  woman  has  swooned  away ! 

Sadly  she  opened  her  eyes  to  the  light ; 

Slowly  recalled  the  events  of  the  fight ; 

Faintly  she  murmured  :   "  Killed  outright ! 
It  has  cost  me  the  life  of  my  only  son  ; 
But  the  battle  is  fought,  and  the  victory  won  • 
The  will  of  the  Lord,  let  it  be  done !" 

God  pity  the  cheerless  Widow  Gray, 
And  send  from  the  halls  of  eternal  day 
The  light  of  His  peace  to  illumine  her  way. 

ANONYMOUS  (Southern). 


ROLL-CALL. 

"CORPORAL  GREEN!"  the  Orderly  cried  ; 
"  Here  !"  was  the  answer,  loud  and  clear, 
From  the  lips  of  the  soldier  who  stood  near, 

And  "  Here  !"  was  the  word  the  next  replied. 

"  Cyrus  Drew !" — then  a  silence  fell ; 

This  time  no  answer  followed  the  call ; 

Only  his  rear-man  had  seen  him  fall : 
Killed  or  wounded — he  could  not  tell. 


iaa 


There  they  stood  in  the  failing  light, 

These  men  of  battle,  with  grave,  dark  looks, 
As  plain  to  be  read  as  open  books, 

While  slowly  gathered  the  shades  of  night. 

The  fern  on  the  hillsides  was  splashed  with  blood, 
And  down  in  the  corn  where  the  poppies  grew 
Were  redder  stains  than  the  poppies  knew  ; 

And  crimson-dyed  was  the  river's  flood. 

For  the  foe  had  crossed  from  the  other  side 
'    That  day,  in  the  face  of  a  murderous  fire 
That  swept  them  down  in  its  terrible  ire, 
And  their  life-blood  went  to  color  the  tide. 

"  Herbert  Kline  !"     At  the  call  there  came 
Two  stalwart  soldiers  into  the  line, 
Bearing  between  them  this  Herbert  Kline, 

Wounded  and  bleeding,  to  answer  his  name. 

"  Ezra  Kerr  !"  —  and  a  voice  answered,  "  Here  !" 
"  Hiram  Kerr!"  —  but  no  man  replied. 
They  were  brothers,  these  two  ;    the  sad  winds, 
sighed, 

And  a  shudder  crept  through  the  cornfield  near. 

"  Ephraim  Deane  !"  —  then  a  soldier  spoke  : 

"  Deane  carried  our  regiment's  colors,"  he  said  ; 
"  Where  our  ensign  was  shot  I  left  him  dead, 

Just  after  the  enemy  wavered  and  broke. 

"  Close  to  the  roadside  his  body  lies  ; 

I  paused  a  moment  and  gave  him  drink  ; 

He  murmured  his  mother's  name,  I  think, 
And  Death  came  with  it,  and  closed  his  eyes." 

'Twas  a  victory  ;  yes,  but  it  cost  us  dear,  — 
For  that  company's  roll,  when  called  at  night, 
Of  a  hundred  men  who  went  into  the  fight, 

Numbered  but  twenty  that  answered  "  Here  !" 

N.  G.  SHEPHERD. 


BY  CHICKAMAUGA  RIVER. 

AGAIN  the  wandering  breezes  bring 

The  music  of  the  sheaves ; 
Again  the  crickets  chirp  and  sing 

Among  the  golden  leaves. 
Twelve  times  the  Springs  have  oped  the  rills, 

Twelve  amber  Autumns  sighed, 
Since  hung  the  war-cloud  o'er  the  hills, 

The  year  that  Charlie  died. 

The  Springs  return  ;  the  roses  blow, 

And  croon  the  bird  and  bee, 
And  flutes  the  ring-dove's  love-call  low, 

Along  the  Tennessee ; 
But  one  dear  voice,  one  cherished  tone, 

Returns  to  me — ah,  never ! 
For  Charlie  fills  a  grave  unknown. 

By  Chickamauga  River. 

Kind  Nature  sets  her  blossoms  there, 

And  fall  the  vernal  rains  ; 
But  we  may  lay  no  garlands  fair 

Above  his  loved  remains. 
A  white  stone  marks  an  empty  grave 

Our  household  graves  beside, 
And  his  dear  name  to  it  we  gave 

The  year  that  Charlie  died. 

The  winds  of  Fall  were  breathing  low, 

The  swallow  left  the  eaves  ; 
We  heard  the  hollow  bugles  blow, 

When  fell  the  harvest  sheaves. 
And  swift  the  mustering  squadrons  passed,— 

We  thought  of  Charlie  ever, — 
And  swift  the  blue  brigades  were  massed 

By  Chickamauga  River. 


201 


Along  the  mountain  spurs  we  saw 

The  wreaths  of  smoke  ascend ; 
And,  all  the  Sabbath  day,  in  awe, 

We  watched  the  war-cloud  blend 
With  Fall's  cerulean  sky,  and  dim 

The  wooded  mountain  side, — 
Oh,  how  our  hearts  then  beat  for  him, 

The  year  that  Charlie  died  ! 

How  Thomas  thundered  past,  when  broke 

The  wavering  echelon  ! 
How  down  the  sky  in  flame  and  smoke 

Low  sunk  the  copper  sun  ; 
The  still  night  came,  and  who  were  saved 

And  who  were  called  to  sever, 
We  could  not  tell ;  our  banner  waved 

By  Chickamauga  River. 

And  some  returned  with  happy  feet ; 

But  never  at  our  door 
The  fair-haired  boy  we  used  to  meet 

Came  back  to  greet  us  more. 
But  memory  seems  to  hear  the  fall 

Of  steps  at  eventide, 
And  all  the  changing  years  recall 

The  year  that  Charlie  died. 

Yet  such  a  gift  of  God  as  he 

'Tis  blessed  to  have  cherished  ; 
And  they  shall  ever  stainless  be 

Who've  nobly  fought  and  perished. 
He  nobly  died,  and  he  can  know 

No  dark  dishonor  ever; 
But  green  the  grass  for  him  shall  grcrv 

By  Chickamauga  River. 

Again  I  see  the  mountains  blaze 

In  Autumn's  amber  light ; 
Again  I  see  in  shimmering  haze 

The  valleys,  long  and  bright. 


202 


Old  Lookout  Mountain  towers  afar 

As  when,  in  lordly  pride, 
It  plumed  its  head  with  flags  of  war 

The  year  that  Charlie  died. 

On  wooded  Mission  Ridge  increase 

The  fruited  fields  of  Fall, 
And  Chattanooga  sleeps  in  peace 

Beneath  her  mountain  wall. 
O  Country,  free  from  sea  to  sea, 

With  union  blest  forever, 
Not  vainly  heroes  died  for  thee 

By  Chickamauga  River ! 

HEZEKIAH  BUTTERWORTH. 


THE  BATTLE  IN  THE  CLOUDS. 

["  The  day  had  been  one  of  dense  mists  and  rains,  and 
much  of  General  Hooker's  battle  was  fought  above  the 
clouds,  on  the  top  of  Lookout  Mountain,'''' — General  Meigs" s 
Report  of  the  Battle  before  Chattanooga,  Nov.  23-25,  1863.] 

WHERE  the  dews  and  the  rains  of  heaven  have  their 

fountain, 
Like   its  thunder  and    its   lightning    our   brave 

burst  on  the  foe, 

Up  above  the  clouds  on  Freedom's  Lookout  Moun 
tain 
Raining    life-blood    like    water    on   the    valleys 

down  below. 

O,  green  be  the  laurels  that  grow, 
O,  sweet  be  the  wild-buds  that  blow, 
In  the  dells  of  the  mountain  where  the  brave  are 
lying  low. 


203 


Light  of  our  hope  and  crown  of  our  story, 

Bright  as  sunlight,  pure  as  starlight  shall  their 

deeds  of  daring  glow, 
While  the  day  and  the  night  out  of  heaven   shed 

their  glory, 
On  Freedom's   Lookout  Mountain  whence  they 

routed  Freedom's  foe. 
O,  soft  be  the  gales  where  they  go 
Through  the  pines  on  the  summit  where  they 

blow, 

Chanting  solemn  music  for  the  souls  that  passed 
below. 

WILLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS. 


AFTER  ALL. 

THE  apples  are  ripe  in  the  orchard, 
The  work  of  the  reaper  is  done, 

And  the  golden  woodlands  redden 
In  the  blood  of  the  dying  sun. 

At  the  cottage-door  the  grandsire 
Sits  pale  in  his  easy-chair, 

While  the  gentle  wind  of  twilight 
Plays  with  his  silver  hair. 

A  woman  is  kneeling  beside  him  ; 

A  fair  young  head  is  pressed, 
In  the  first  wild  passion  of  sorrow, 

Against  his  aged  breast. 

And  far  from  over  the  distance 
The  faltering  echoes  come 

Of  the  flying  blast  of  trumpet 
And  the  rattling  roll  of  drum. 


2H4 


And  the  grandsire  speaks  in  a  whisper : 

"  The  end  no  man  can  see  ; 
But  we  give  him  to  his  country, 

And  we  give  our  prayers  to  Thee." 

The  violets  star  the  meadows, 

The  rose-buds  fringe  the  door, 
And  over  the  grassy  orchard 

The  pink-white  blossoms  pour. 

• 
But  the  grandsire's  chair  is  empty, 

The  cottage  is  dark  and  still ; 
There's  a  nameless  grave  in  the  battle-field. 

And  a  new  one  under  the  hill. 

And  a  pallid,  tearless  woman 

By  the  cold  hearth  sits  alone ; 
And  the  old  clock  in  the  corner 

Ticks  on  with  a  steady  drone, 

WILLIAM  WINTER. 


OUR  CHRISTMAS  HYMN. 

"  GOOD-WILL  and  peace,  peace  and  good-will !" 

The  burden  of  the  Advent  song, 
What  time  the  love-charmed  waves  grew  still 

To  hearken  to  the  shining  throng ; 
The  wondering  shepherds  heard  the  strain 

Who  watched  by  night  the  slumbering  fleece, 
The  deep  skies  echoed  the  refrain, 

"  Peace  and  good-will,  good-will  and  peace !" 

And  wise  men  hailed  the  promised  sign, 

And  brought  their  birth-gifts  from  the  East, 

Dear  to  that  Mother  as  the  wine 
That  hallowed  Cana's  bridal  feast ; 


205 


But  what  to  these  are  myrrh  or  gold. 

And  what  Arabia's  costliest  gem, 
Whose  eyes  the  Child  divine  behold, 

The  blessed  Babe  of  Bethlehem. 

"  Peace  and  good-will,  good-will  and  peace  !" 

They  sing,  the  bright  ones  overhead  ; 
And  scarce  the  jubilant  anthems  cease 

Ere  Judah  wails  her  first-born  dead  ; 
And  Ramah's  wild,  despairing  cry 

Fills  with  great  dread  the  shuddering  coast, 
And  Rachel  hath  but  one  reply  : 

"  Bring  back,  bring  back  my  loved  and  lost  F' 

So  down  two  thousand  years  of  doom 

That  cry  is  borne  on  wailing  winds, 
But  never  star  breaks  through  the  gloom, 

No  cradled  peace  the  watcher  finds  ; 
And  still  the  Herodian  steel  is  driven, 

And  breaking  hearts  make  ceaseless  moan, 
And  still  the  mute  appeal  to  heaven 

Man  answers  back  with  groan  for  groan. 

How  shall  we  keep  our  Christmas-tide, 

With  that  dread  Past,  its  wounds  agape, 
Forever  walking  by  our  side, 

A  fearful  shade,  an  awful  shape ! 
Can  any  promise  of  the  Spring 

Make  green  the  faded  Autumn  leaf  ? 
Or  who  shall  say  that  time  will  bring 

Fair  fruit  to  him  who  sows  but  grief? 

Wild  bells  that  shake  the  midnight  air 

With  those  dear  tones  that  custom  loves 
You  wake  no  sounds  of  laughter  here, 

Nor  mirth  in  all  our  silent  groves ; 
On  one  broad  waste,  by  hill  or  flood, 

Of  ravaged  lands  your  music  falls, 
And  where  the  happy  homestead  stood 

The  stars  look  down  on  roofless  halls. 


At  every  board  a  vacant  chair 

Fills  with  quick  tears  some  tender  eye, 
And  at  our  maddest  sports  appear 

Those  well-loved  forms  that  will  not  die. 
We  lift  the  glass,  our  hand  is  stayed — 

We  jest,  a  spectre  rises  up — 
And  weeping,  though  no  word  is  said. 

We  kiss  and  pass  the  silent  cup, 

And  pledge  the  gallant  friend  who  keeps 

His  Christmas  eve  on  Malvern's  height, 
And  him,  our  fair-haired  boy,  who  sleeps 

Beneath  Virginian  snows  to-night ; 
While  by  the  fire  she  musing  broods 

On  all  that  was  and  might  have  been, 
If  Shiloh's  dank  and  oozing  woods 

Had  never  drunk  that  crimson  stain. 

O  happy  Yules  of  buried  years ! 

Could  ye  but  come  in  wonted  guise, 
Sweet  as  love's  earliest  kiss  appears 

When  looking  back  through  wistful  eyes 
Would  seem  those  chimes  whose  voices  tell 

His  birth-night  with  melodious  burst, 
Who,  sitting  by  Samaria's  well, 

Quenched  the  lorn  widow's  life-long  thirst. 

Ah !  yet  I  trust  that  all  who  weep, 

Somewhere,  at  last,  will  surely  find 
His  rest,  ?f  through  dark  ways  they  keep 

The  child-like  faith,  the  prayerful  mind  ; 
And  some  far  Christmas  morn  shall  bring 

Froiii  human  ills  a  sweet  release 
To  loving  hearts,  while  angels  sing  : 

"  Peace  and  good-will,  good-will  and  peace  I" 
JOHN  DICKSON  BRUNS  (Southern), 


NEW  YEAR'S  EVE. 
\Libby  Prison,  Richmond,  Fa.,  December  31,  1863.] 

TlS  twelve  o'clock  !     Within  my  prison  dreary, 
My  head  upon  my  hand,  sitting  so  weary, 
Scanning  the  future,  musing  on  the  past, 
Pondering  the  fate  that  here  my  lot  has  cast. 
The  hoarse  cry  of  the  sentry  on  his  beat 
Wakens  the  echoes  of  the  silent  street — 
"Airs  well!" 

Ah !  is  it  so  ?     My  fellow-captive  sleeping 
Where  the  barred  window  strictest  watch  is  keeping, 
Dreaming  of  home  and  wife  and  prattling  child, 
Of  the  sequestered  vale,  the  mountain  wild, 
Tell  me,  when  cruel  morn  shall  break  again, 
Wilt  thou  repeat  the  sentinel's  refrain — 
"All's  well!" 

And    thou,    my    country!     Wounded,    pale,    and 

bleeding, 

Thy  children  deaf  to  a  fond  mother's  pleading, 
Stabbing  with  cruel  hate  the  nurturing  breast 
To  which  their  infancy  in  love  was  prest, 
Recount  thy  wrongs,  thy  many  sorrows  name, 
Then  to  the  nations,  if  thou  canst,  proclaim — 
"All's  well/" 

But  through  the  clouds  the  sun  is  slowly  breaking  ; 
Hope  from  her  long,  deep  sleep  is  re-awaking : 
Speed  the  time,  Father  !  when  the  bow  of  peace, 
Spanning  the  gulf,  shall  bid  the  tempest  cease, 
When  foemen,  clasping  each  other  by  the  hand, 
Shall  shout  once  more,  in  a  united  land — 
"All's  well!" 

F.  A.  BARTLESON. 


ULRIC  DAHLGREN. 

[Colonel  Ulric  Dahlgren,  son  of  Admiral  Dahlgren, U.  S. 
Navy,  distinguished  himself  by  his  dashing  exploits  with  the 
Army  of  the  Potomac,  while  serving  on  the  staffs  of  Gen 
erals  Sigel,  Hooker,  and  Meade,  and  lost  a  leg  at  Gettys 
burg:  While  still  on  crutches,  he  led  an  expedition  to  free 
the  Union  prisoners  in  Libby  Prison  at  Richmond,  and  fell 
in  a  midnight  ambush,  March  2,  1864,  at  the  age  of  'twenty- 
two  years. .] 

A  FLASH  of  light  across  the  night, 

An  eager  face,  an  eye  afire  : 
O  lad  so  true,  you  yet  may  rue 

The  courage  of  your  deep  desire  \ 

"  Nay,  tempt  me  not ;  the  way  is  plain — 
'Tis  but  the  coward  checks  his  rein  ; 

For  there  they  lie, 

And  there  they  cry 
For  whose  dear  sake  'twere  joy  to  die !" 

He  bends  unto  his  saddle-bow, 
The  steeds  they  follow  two  and  two  ; 

Their  flanks  are  wet  with  foam  and  sweat, 
Their  riders'  locks  are  damp  with  dew. 

"  O  comrades,  haste  \  the  way  is  long, 
The  dirge  it  drowns  the  battle  song  ; 

The  hunger  preys, 

The  famine  slays, 
An  awful  horror  veils  our  ways  !" 

Beneath  the  pall  of  prison  wall 

The  rush  of  hoofs  they  seem  to  hear ; 

From  loathsome  guise  they  lift  their  eyes, 
And  beat  their  bars  and  bend  their  ear. 

"  Ah,  God  be  thanked  !  our  friends  are  nigh ; 
He  wills  it  not  that  thus  we  die  ; 

O  fiends  accurst 

Of  Want  and  Thirst, 
Our  comrades  gather — do  your  worst  1" 


A  sharp  affright  runs  through  the  night, 
An  ambush  stirred,  a  column  reined  ; 

The  hurrying  steed  has  checked  his  speed, 
His  smoking  flanks  are  crimson-stained. 

O  noble  son  of  noble  sire, 
Thine  ears  are  deaf  to  our  desire ! 

O  knightly  grace 

Of  valiant  race, 
Thy  grave  is  honor's  trysting-place  I 

O  life  so  pure  !  O  faith  so  sure  ! 

O  heart  so  brave,  and  true,  and  strong ! 
With  tips  of  flame  is  writ  your  name 

In  annalled  deed  and  storied  song  ! 

It  flares  across  the  solemn  night, 
It  glitters  in  the  radiant  light ; 

A  jewel  set, 

Unnumbered  yet, 
In  our  Republic's  coronet ! 

KATE  BROWNLEE  SHERWOOD. 


OBSEQUIES  OF  STUART. 

[General  J.  E.  B.  Stuart,  the  famous  chief  of  the  Confed 
erate  cavalry,  fell  in  an  engagement  with  General  SAert- 
daris forces,  at  Yellow  Tavern,  Va.,  May  12,  1864.] 

WE  could  not  pause,  while  yet  the  noon-tide  air 
Shook  with  the  cannonade's  incessant  pealing, 
The  funeral  pageant  fitly  to  prepare — 
A  nation's  grief  revealing. 

The  smoke,  above  the  glimmering  woodland  wide 

That  skirts  our  southward  border  in  its  beauty, 
Marked  where  our  heroes  stood  and  fought  and  died 
For  love  and  faith  and  duty. 


And  still,  what  time  the  doubtful  strife  went  on, 
We  might  not  find  expression  for  our  sorrow ; 
We  could  but  lay  our  dear  dumb  warrior  down. 
And  gird  us  for  the  morrow. 

One  weary  year  agone,  when  came  a  lull 

With  victory  in  the  conflict's  stormy  closes, 
When  the  glad  Spring,  all  flushed  and  beautiful, 
First  mocked  us  with  her  roses, 

With  dirge  and  bell  and  minute-gun,  we  paid 
Some  few  poor  rites — an  inexpressive  token 
Of  a  great  people's  pain — to  Jackson's  shade, 
In  agony  unspoken. 

No  wailing  trumpet  and  no  tolling  bell, 

No  cannon,  save  the  battle's  boom  receding, 
When  Stuart  to  the  grave  we  bore,  might  tell, 
With  hearts  all  crushed  and  bleeding. 

The  crisis  suited  not  with  pomp,  and  she 

Whose  anguish  bears  the  seal  of  consecration 
Had  wished  his  Christian  obsequies  should  be 
Thus  void  of  ostentation. 

Only  the  maidens  came,  sweet  flowers  to  twine 
Above  his  form  so  still  and  cold  and  painless. 
Whose  deeds  upon  our  brightest  record  shine, 
Whose  life  and  sword  were  stainless. 

They  well  remembered  how  he  loved  to  dash 

Into  the  fight,  festooned  from  summer  bowers ; 
How  like  a  fountain's  spray  his  sabre's  flash 
Leaped  from  a  mass  of  flowers. 

And  so  we  carried  to  his  place  of  rest 

All  that  of  our  great  Paladin  was  mortal : 
The  cross,  and  not  the  sabre,  on  his  breast, 
That  opes  the  heavenly  portal. 


an 


No  more  of  tribute  might  to  us  remain  ; 

But  there  will  come  a  time  when  Freedom's  martyrs 
A  richer  guerdon  of  renown  shall  gain 
Than  gleams  in  stars  and  garters. 

I  hear  from  out  that  sunlit  land  which  lies 

Beyond  these  clouds  that  gather  darkly  o'er  us, 
The  happy  sounds  of  industry  arise 
In  swelling  peaceful  chorus. 

And  mingling  with  these  sounds,  the  glad  acclaim 

Of  millions  undisturbed  by  war's  afflictions, 
Crowning  each  martyr's  never-dying  name 
With  grateful  benedictions. 

In  some  fair  future  garden  of  delights, 
Where  flowers  shall  bloom  and  song-birds  sweetly 

warble, 

Art  shall  erect  the  statues  of  our  knights 
In  living  bronze  and  marble. 

And  none  of  all  that  bright  heroic  throng 

Shall  wear  to  far-off  time  a  semblance  grander, 
Shall  still  be  decked  with  fresher  wreaths  of  song, 
Than  this  beloved  commander. 

The  Spanish  legend  tells  us  of  the  Cid, 

That  after  death  he  rode  erect,  sedately, 
Along  his  lines,  even  as  in  life  he  did, 
In  presence  yet  more  stately  : 

And  thus  our  Stuart,  at  this  moment,  seems 
To  ride  out  of  our  dark  and  troubled  story 
Into  the  region  of  romance  and  dreams, 
A  realm  of  light  and  glory  ; 

And  sometimes,  when  the  silver  bugles  blow, 

That  ghostly  form,  in  battle  reappearing, 
Shall  lead  his  horsemen  headlong  on  the  foe, 
In  victory  careering  ! 

JOHN  R.  THOMPSON. 


212 


THE  THOUSAND  AND    THIRTY-SEVEN. 

[A  full  regiment  of  infantry  consists  of  a  thousand  men 
and  thirty-seven  commissioned  officer s.\ 

THREE  years  ago  to-day 

We  raised  our  hands  to  heaven, 
And  on  the  rolls  of  muster 

Our  names  were  thirty-seven  ; 
There  were  just  a  thousand  bayonets, 

And  the  swords  were  thirty-seven, 
As  we  took  the  oath  of  service 

With  our  right  hands  raised  to  heaven. 

Oh,  'twas  a  gallant  day, 

In  memory  still  adored, 
That  day  of  our  sun-bright  nuptials 

With  the  musket  and  the  sword  ! 
Shrill  rang  the  fifes,  the  bugles  blared, 

And  beneath  a  cloudless  heaven 
Twinkled  a  thousand  bayonets, 

And  the  swords  were  thirty-seven. 

Of  the  thousand  stalwart  bayonets 

Two  hundred  march  to-day ; 
Hundreds  lie  in  Virginia  swamps, 

And  hundreds  in  Maryland  clay ; 
And  other  hundreds,  less  happy,  drag 

Their  shattered  limbs  around, 
And  envy  the  deep,  long,  blessed  sleep 

Of  the  battle-field's  holy  ground. 

For  the  swords — one  night,  a  week  ago, 

The  remnant,  just  eleven, 
Gathered  around  a  banqueting  board 

With  seats  for  thirty-seven  ; 
There  were  two  limped  in  on  crutches, 

And  two  had  each  but  a  hand 
To  pour  the  wine  and  raise  the  cup 

As  we  toasted  "  Our  flag  and  land  '" 


And  the  room  seemed  filled  with  whispers, 

As  we  looked  at  the  vacant  seats, 
And,  with  choking  throats,  we  pushed  aside 

The  rich  but  untasted  meats  ; 
Then  in  silence  we  brimmed  our  glasses, 

As  we  rose  up — just  eleven — 
And  bowed  as  we  drank  to  the  loved  and  the  dead 

Who  had  made  us  thirty-seven  ! 

CHARLES  G.  HALPINE. 


DRIVING  HOME  THE  COWS. 

OUT  of  the  clover  and  blue-eyed  grass 
He  turned  them  into  the  river  lane ; 

One  after  another  he  let  them  pass, 
Then  fastened  the  meadow  bars  again. 

Under  the  willows,  and  over  the  hill, 
He  patiently  followed  their  sober  pace  ; 

The  merry  whistle  for  once  was  still, 

And  something  shadowed  the  sunny  face. 

Only  a  boy  !  and  his  father  had  said 
He  never  could  let  his  youngest  go; 

Two  already  were  lying  dead 

Under  the  feet  of  the  trampling  foe. 

But  after  the  evening  work  was  done, 

And  the  frogs  were  loud  in  the  meadow  swamp, 

Over  his  shoulder  he  slung  his  gun 

And  stealthily  followed  the  foot-path  damp : 

Across  the  clover  and  through  the  wheat, 
With  resolute  heart  and  purpose  grim, 

Though  cold  was  the  dew  on  his  hurrying  feet, 
And  the  blind  bat's  flitting  startled  him. 


214 


Thrice  since  then  had  the  lanes  been  white, 
And  the  orchards  sweet  with  apple-bloom  ; 

And  now,  when  the  cows  came  back  at  night, 
The  feeble  father  drove  them  home. 

For  news  had  come  to  the  lonely  farm 
That  three  were  lying  where  two  had  lain  ; 

And  the  old  man's  tremulous,  palsied  arm 
Could  never  lean  on  a  son's  again. 

The  summer  day  grew  cool  and  late : 

He  went  for  the  cows  when  the  work  was  done ; 

But  down  the  lane,  as  he  opened  the  gate, 
He  saw  them  coming  one  by  one : 

Brinclle,  Ebony,  Speckle,  and  Bess, 

Shaking  their  horns  in  the  evening  wind, 

Cropping  the  buttercups  out  of  the  grass  ; — 
But  who  was  it  following  close  behind  ? 

Loosely  swung  in  the  idle  air 

The  empty  sleeve  of  army  blue ; 
And  worn  and  pale,  from  the  crisping  hair, 

Looked  out  a  face  that  the  father  knew. 

For  Southern  prisons  will  sometimes  yawn, 
And  yield  their  dead  unto  life  again ; 

And  the  day  that  comes  with  a  cloudy  dawn, 
In  golden  glory  at  last  may  wane. 

The  great  tears  sprang  to  their  meeting  eyes  ; 
For  the  heart  must  speak  when  the  lips  are 

dumb  : 

And  under  the  silent  evening  skies 
Together  they  followed  the  cattle  home. 

KATE  PUTNAM  OSGOOD. 


215 


THE  SILENT  MARCH. 

[In  one  of  the  campaigns  of  the  Army  of  Northern  Virginia^ 
white  General  Lee  was  lying  asleep  by  the  wayside  an  army 
of  fifteen  thousand  men  passed  by  in  silence,  anxious  not  t» 
disturb  his  rest.] 

O'ERCOME  with  weariness  and  care, 

The  war-worn  veteran  lay 
On  the  green  turf  of  his  native  land, 

And  slumbered  by  the  way. 

The  breeze  that  sighed  across  his  brow, 
And  smoothed  its  deepened  lines, 

Fresh  from  his  own  loved  mountains  bore 
The  murmur  of  their  pines  ; 

And  the  glad  sound  of  waters, 

The  blue  rejoicing  streams, 
Whose  sweet  familiar  tones  were  blent 

With  the  music  of  his  dreams. 

They  brought  no  sound  of  battle's  din, 

Shrill  fife  or  clarion, 
But  only  tenderest  memories 

Of  his  own  fair  Arlington. 

While  thus  the  chieftain  slumbered, 

Forgetful  of  his  care, 
The  hollow  tramp  of  thousands 

Came  sounding  through  the  air. 

With  ringing  spur  and  sabre, 
And  trampling  feet,  they  come, 

Gay  plume  and  rustling  banner, 
And  fife  and  trump  and  drum. 

But  soon  the  foremost  column 
Sees  where,  beneath  the  shade, 

In  slumber,  calm  as  childhood, 
Their  wearied  chief  is  laid. 


2ifi 


And  down  the  line  a  murmur 

From  lip  to  lip  there  ran, 
Until  the  stilly  whisper 

Had  spread  to  rear  from  van. 

And  o'er  the  host  a  silence 

As  deep  and  sudden  fell, 
As  though  some  mighty  wizard 

Had  hushed  them  with  a  spell. 

And  every  sound  was  muffled, 

And  every  soldier's  tread 
Fell  lightly  as  a  mother's 

'Round  her  baby's  cradle-bed. 

And  rank  and  file  and  column, 

So  softly  by  they  swept, 
It  seemed  a  ghostly  army 

Had  passed  him  as  he  slept. 

But  mightier  than  enchantment 

Was  that  with  magic  wove  — 
The  spell  that  hushed  their  voices  — 

Deep  reverence  and  love. 

ANONYMOUS. 


LEE  TO  THE  REAR. 

\Founded  on  an  incident  in  one  of  the  battles  of  tke 
Wilderness,  when  General  Lee  seized  the  colors  of  a  Texan 
regiment  to  lead  a  charge  against  a  well-nigh  impregnable 
position.  The  colonel  promised  to  carry  the  position  if  Lee 
would  go  to  the  rear  ;  and  when  the  soldiers  heard  the 
promise  and  expostulation,  they  repeated  it,  and  "  Lee  to 
the  rear  /"  was  shouted  down  the  line.~\ 

DAWN  of  a  pleasant  morning  in  May 
Broke  through  the  Wilderness  cool  and  gray ; 
While  perched  in  the  tallest  tree-tops,  the  birds 
Were   carolling    Mendelssohn's    "  Songs    without 
words." 


21 


Far  from  the  haunts  of  men  remote, 
The  brook  brawled  on  with  a  liquid  note ; 
And  Nature,  all  tranquil  and  lovely,  wore 
The  smile  of  the  spring,  as  in  Eden  of  yore. 

Little  by  little  as  daylight  increased, 

And  deepened  the  roseate  flush  in  the  East — 

Little  by  little  did  morning  reveal 

Two  long  glittering  lines  of  steel ; 

Where  two  hundred  thousand  bayonets  gleam, 
Tipped  with  the  light  of  the  earliest  beam, 
And  the  faces  are  sullen  and  grim  to  see 
In  the  hostile  armies  of  Grant  and  Lee. 

All  of  a  sudden,  ere  rose  the  sun, 
Pealed  on  the  silence  the  opening  gun — 
A  little  white  puff  of  smoke  there  came, 
And  anon  the  valley  was  wreathed  in  flame. 

Down  on  the  left  of  the  Rebel  lines, 

Where  a  breastwork  stands  in  a  copse  of  pines, 

Before  the  Rebels  their  ranks  can  form, 

The  Yankees  have  carried  the  place  by  storm. 

Stars  and  Stripes  on  the  salient  wave, 
Where  many  a  hero  has  found  a  grave, 
And  the  gallant  Confederates  strive  in  vain 
The  ground  they  have  drenched  with  their  blood,  to 
regain. 

Yet  louder  the  thunder  of  battle  roared — 
Yet  a  deadlier  fire  on  the  columns  poured  ; 
Slaughter  infernal  rode  with  Despair, 
Furies  twain,  through  the  murky  air. 

Not  far  off,  in  the  saddle  there  sat 
A  gray-bearded  man  in  a  black  slouched  hat; 
Not  much  moved  by  the  fire  was  he, 
Calm  and  resolute  Robert  Lee. 


Quick  and  watchful  he  kept  his  eye 
On  the  bold  Rebel  brigades  close  by, — 
Reserves  that  were  standing  (and  dying)  at  ease, 
While  the  tempest  of  wrath  toppled  over  the  trees. 

For  still  with  their  loud,  deep,  bull-dog  bay, 
The  Yankee  batteries  blazed  away, 
And  with  every  murderous  second  that  sped 
A  dozen  brave  fellows,  alas  !  fell  dead. 

The  grand  old  graybeard  rode  to  the  space 
Where  Death  and  his  victims  stood  face  to  face, 
And  silently  waved  his  old  slouched  hat — 
A  world  of  meaning  there  was  in  that ! 

"  Follow  me  !   Steady  !    We'll  save  the  day !" 
This  was  what  he  seemed  to  say ; 
And  to  the  light  of  his  glorious  eye 
The  bold  brigades  thus  made  reply  : 

"We'll  go  forward,  but  you  must  go  back" — 
And  they  moved  not  an  inch  in  the  perilous  track; 
"  Go  to  the  rear,  and  we'll  send  them  to  hell !" 
And  the  sound  of  the  battle  was  lost  in  their  yell. 

Turning  his  bridle,  Robert  Lee 
Rode  to  the  rear.     Like  waves  of  the  sea, 
Bursting  the  dikes  in  their  overflow, 
Madly  his  veterans  dashed  on  the  foe. 

And  backward  in  terror  that  foe  was  driven, 
Their  banners  rent  and  their  columns  riven, 
Wherever  the  tide  of  battle  rolled 
Over  the  Wilderness,  wood  and  wold. 

Sunset  out  of  a  crimson  sky 
Streamed  o'er  a  field  of  ruddier  dye, 
And  the  brook  ran  on  with  a  purple  stain. 
From  the  blood  of  ten  thousand  foemen  slain. 


aia 


Seasons  have  passed  since  that  day  and  year — 
Again  o'er  its  pebbles  the  brook  runs  clear, 
And  the  field  in  a  richer  green  is  drest 
Where  the  dead  of  a  terrible  conflict  rest. 

Hushed  is  the  roll  of  the  Rebel  drum, 

The  sabres  are  sheathed,  and  the  cannon  are  dumb  ; 

And  Fate,  with  his  pitiless  hand,  has  furled 

The  flag  that  once  challenged  the  gaze  of  the  world  ; 

But  the  fame  of  the  Wilderness  fight  abides  ; 
And  down  into  history  grandly  rides, 
Calm  and  unmoved  as  in  battle  he  sat, 
The  gray-bearded  man  in  the  black  slouched  hat. 
JOHN  R.  THOMPSON. 


RUNNING  THE  BLOCKADE. 

A   CHASE   IN   SOUNDINGS. 

HOVE  in  the  stays,  she  lay, 

In  the  blockading  grounds 

Of  the  North  Carolina  sounds, 

Beleaguered  half  a  day, 

The  good  ship  Heir  of  Lynn : 

The  still  air  shut  her  in 

The  very  focus  of  light ; 

Where  the  sea  grows  hot  and  white, 

As  if  it  had  turned  to  salt 

Or  solid  rock,  with  a  fault 

That  clipped  the  horizon's  edge 

In  a  long  irregular  ledge. 

In  the  summer  of  sixty-three, 
As  still  as  they  could  be 
The  sea  and  air ;  and  every 
Spar  lost  in  a  revery 


Over  its  shadow,  under 

The  sea,  in  curious  wonder. 

Not  a  cat's-paw  turned  the  streamer, 

To  spell  at  it  letter  by  letter ; 

And  for  fifty  leagues  and  better, 

You  could  see  the  smoke  of  a  steamer 

Drifting  down  in  the  offing. 

You  could  hear  the  sullen  coughing, 

Over  sixty  miles  away, 

At  Wilmington  harbor  and  bay, — 

The  pounding  of  cannon  and  mortar, 

And  the  groan  of  torpedoes  under 

The  sea,  that  came  over  her  quarter, 

Like  the  bellow  of  smothered  thunder. 

Uneasily  looked  the  master 

Now  at  the  sea,  and  then 

Off  in  a  dream  again 

Of  home,  as  the  bo's'n  cast  her 

Dipsy1  lead  in  the  shallow, 

To  a  sort  of  nasal  tune, 

Larded  with  talk  and  tallow, 

In  the  bight  of  the  afternoon ; 

Drawling  from  sea-worn  topics, 

To  sudden  squalls  in  the  tropics  ; 

And  lee  shores  whose  hot  lips 

Had  opened  and  swallowed  ships, — 

Till  the  slow  talk  seemed  to  pool 

In  the  old  Annapolis  school ; 

And  the  master  was  "  Joe  "  again, 

With  his  messmate,  Geordie  of  Maine, 

Who  loved,  with  loves  like  his  own, 

Sweethearts  they  never  had  won, — 

Like  the  small  blue  flowers  that  live  but  a  day, 

Sweet  things,  in  the  inlets  of  Chesapeake  Bay. 

The  skies  got  bluer  and  bluer, 
Till  the  far-off  gunboat  knew  her, 

1  Deep  sea. 


221 


And  came  up,  hand  over  hand, 
With  a  rushing,  like  falling  sand, 
Of  the  coils  of  her  screw  propeller, 
Like  the  rifles  that  twist  out  her  shell,  or 
The  leverage  fold  and  grapple 
Of  the  sinewy  boa-constrictor, 
While  her  stem  peeled  the  scum  as  an  apple, 
And  the  plunge  of  her  steam  beat  the  drums  of  a 
victor. 

But,  like  omens  in  viscera, 

Old  Romans  sought  for ; 

As  the  stars  fought  with  Sisera, — 

Faster  and  faster, 

And  over  and  past  her, 

Swirled  the  cone  of  the  cyclone  and  fought  her. 

It  touched  the  sails  of  the  schooner 
The  turn  of  a  sandglass  sooner ; 
And,  breaking  in  sudden  bloom, — 
From  her  foretop  studding-sail, 
Aft  to  her  spanker-boom, 
Down  to  her  channel  rail, 
Fore  to  her  flying  jibs  ; — 
Like  a  lily  when  it  buds 
She  flowers  out  of  her  ribs. 
White  as  the  salt-sea  seeds ; 
Bobbing  about,  like  a  cup. 
Then  a  shout,  and  the  hunt  is  up. 


"  A  lee  shore  and  a  squall ! 
There's  but  one  of  them  all," 
As  he  steamed  within  hail, 
Said  the  gunboat  commander, 
"Of  all  that  I  know, 
That  would  dare  carry  sail 
To  beach  her  and  land  her, — 
Annapolis  Joe." 


222 


As  swivels  of  hail 

Beat  tattoo  on  the  sail, 

And  he  looked  on  the  sea, 

Where  tempests  unchain 

Reefs  hid  in  white  rain  ; 

"  You'll  want  boots  to  follow  me 

All  night,"  said  the  master, 

"  With  your  wrought-iron  roster, 

Old  Geordie  of  Maine." 

Ship  ahoy  !  Heave  to  ! 
The  wind  seemed  to  wrestle 
With  steam  in  the  vessel, 
Elastic  and  pliant, 
And  wrench  the  propeller 
With  the  strength  of  a  giant, 
As  if  to  compel  her 
To  shrink  from  the  danger 
Her  keel  timbers  ran  on : 
But  grimly  defiant, 
And  louder  and  louder, 
In  the  bursting  of  powder, 
Spoke  the  lips  of  her  cannon. 

*  *  *  *  * 

"  It's  Joe,  to  be  sure," 
Said  the  naval  commander, 

"  And  he's  got  a  king's  ransom  of  stores  in  his  keel ; 
I'll  sink  her,  or  land  her 
Rawbones  on  a  lee  shore, 
To  feed  the  Sound  fishes  on  his  powder  and  steel." 

A  reef  rose  between, 

Where  the  keel  of  the  sea  seemed  to  jib  and  careen, 

And  pitch  on  its  beam  ends, 

About  which  the  water  ran  smooth  with  vehemence, 

Like  the  gates  of  a  lock  when  its  hinges  are  swung. 

And  the  bore  of  the  current  shoots  out  in  a  tongue, 

But,  taut  and  close-lasted, 

From  keelson  to  masthead ; 


223 


Spanker  vangs  to  spritsail-yards, 

And  flying  jib-boom, 

As  true  to  her  halyards 

As  belle  of  the  room 

When  her  feet,  to  the  click  of  the  castanets  clip 
ping. 

Make  rhymes  to  the  music's  adagios  tripping, — 

As  dangerously  quick  as  Herodias'  daughter, — 

While  the  wind  kissed  her  lacings  and  whipped 
round  her  quarter, 

And  pitch-piped  its  bagpipes  as  shrill  as  a  demon, 

The  sloop  felt  her  tiller  ; 

Double  banked  her  propeller  ; 

And  rushed  at  the  sluice  with  a  full  head  of  steam  on. 
***** 

But  the  fugitive  ship, 

Like  a  wild  thing  at  bay, 

That  will  double  and  slip 

From  corner  to  panel, 

Like  a  fox,  stole  away. 

The  nips  of  the  channel, 

In  shoulder  and  knee, 

Seemed  to  rise  and  bend  over  her; 

The  bellowing  sea, 

To  open  and  cover  her ; 

And  where  the  surf  plunges 

Through  coral  and  sponges 

In  slings  of  the  wind  as  light  as  a  feather, 

To  rove  the  blue  phosphorous  frost  in  her  shrouds, 

The  burst  of  the  clouds 

Mixed  the  sea  and  the  sand  and  the  sky  altogether, 

And  the  welkin  cracked  open  with  terrible  bright 
ening, 

Till  the  bed  of  the  sea  seemed  to  bristle  with  light 
ning; 

And  over,  and  under 

The  clamor  of  waves,  pealed  the  toll  of  the  thunder- 


224 


So,  all   through  the  night,  in  the    darkness  they 

grope. 

In  the  wash  of  the  water,  and  swish  of  the  spray, 
Clung  the  sloop  to  the  chase,  as  if  towed  by  a  rope, 
Till  the  morning  gun  slipped  it,  at  breaking  of  day. 
Tira  la,  sang  the  bugles — a  fox  stole  away  / 
Stole  away  ;  stole  away :  stole  away  ;  stole  away  : 
Tira  la,  sang  the  bugles — a  fox  stole  away  ! 

In  Wilmington  town  there's  a  ringing  of  bells 
As  the  people  go  down,  to  see  her  come  in, 
With  her  flag  at  the  forepeak,  as  every  one  tells 
Of  the  old  ballad  luck  of  the  ship  Heir  of  Lynn. 

If  you  ever  meet  Josey,  or  Geordie  of  Maine, 
You  will  run  the  chase  over  in  soundings  again. 
WILL  WALLACE  HARNEY. 


THE  ALABAMA. 

[Sunk  in  the  harbor  of  Cherbourg,  France,  by  the  Unittd 
States  Steamer Kearsarge,  June  19,  1864.] 

SHE  has  gone  to  the  bottom  !  the  wrath  of  the  tide 
Now  breaks  in  vain  insolence  o'er  her ; 

No  more  the  rough  seas  like  a  queen  shall  she  ride, 
While  the  foe  flies  in  terror  before  her ! 

Now  captive  or  exiled,  or  silent  in  death, 
The  forms  that  so  bravely  did  man  her ; 

Her  deck  is  untrod,  and  the  gale's  stirring  breath 
Flouts  no  more  the  red  cross  of  her  banner ! 

She  is  down  'neath  the  waters,  but  still  her  bright 
name 

Is  in  death,  as  in  life,  ever  glorious, 
And  a  sceptre  all  barren  the  conqueror  must  claim, 

Though  he  boasts  the  proud  title  "  Victorious." 


225 


Her  country's  lone  champion,  she  shunned  not  the 

fight. 

Though  unequal  in  strength,  bold  and  fearless  ; 
And  proved  in  her  fate,  though  not  matchless   in 

might, 
In  daring  at  least  she  was  peerless. 

No  trophy  hung  high  in  the  foe's  hated  hall 

Shall  speak  of  her  final  disaster, 
Nor  tell  of  the  danger  that  could  not  appall, 

Nor  the  spirit  that  nothing  could  master  ! 

The   death-shot   has  sped — she  has    grimly  gone 
down, 

But  left  her  destroyer  no  token, 
And  the  mythical  wand  of  her  mystic  renown, 

Though  the  waters  o'erwhelm,  is  unbroken. 

For  lo  !  ere  she  settles  beneath  the  dark  wave 
On  her  enemies'  cheeks  spreads  a  pallor, 

As  another  deck  summons  the  swords  of  the  brave 
To  gild  a  new  name  with  their  valor. 

Her  phantom  will  yet  haunt  the  wild  roaring  breeze, 
Causing  foemen  to  start  and  to  shudder, 

While  their  commerce  still  steals  like  a  thief  o'er  the 

seas, 
And  trembles  from  bowsprit  to  rudder. 

The  spirit  that  shed  on  the  wave's  gleaming  crest 

The  light  of  a  legend  romantic 
Shall  live  while  a  sail  flutters  over  the  breast 

Of  thy  far-bounding  billows,  Atlantic  ! 

And  as  long  as  one  swift  keel  the  strong  surges 
stems, 

Or  "  poor  Jack  "  loves  his  song  and  his  story, 
Shall  shine  in  tradition  the  valor  of  Semmes 

And  the  brave  ship  that  bore  him  to  glory  ! 

MAURICE  BELL, 


228 


THE  BAY  FIGHT. 

[Mobile  Harbor,  Alabama,  August  8,  1864.] 

THREE  days  through  sapphire  seas  we  sailed, 

The  steady  Trade  blew  strong  and  free, 
The  Northern  Light  his  banners  paled, 
The  Ocean  Stream  our  channels  wet, 

We  rounded  low  Canaveral's  lee, 
And  passed  the  isles  of  emerald  set 
In  blue  Bahama's  turquoise  sea. 

By  reef  and  shoal  obscurely  mapped, 
And  hauntings  of  the  gray  sea-wolf, 

The  palmy  Western  Key  lay  lapped 
In  the  warm  washing  of  the  Gulf. 

But  weary  to  the  hearts  of  all 

The  burning  glare,  the  barren  reach 
Of  Santa  Rosa's  withered  beach, 

And  Pensacola's  ruined  wall. 

And  weary  was  the  long  patrol, 

The  thousand  miles  of  shapeless  strand, 

From  Brazos  to  San  Bias  that  roll 
Their  drifting  dunes  of  desert  sand. 

Yet  coastwise  as  we  cruised  or  lay, 
The  land-breeze  still  at  nightfall  bore, 

By  beach  and  fortress-guarded  bay, 
Sweet  odors  from  the  enemy's  shore, 

Fresh  from  the  forest  solitudes, 
Unchallenged  of  his  sentry  lines, — 

The  bursting  of  his  cypress  buds, 
And  the  warm  fragrance  of  his  pines. 

Ah,  never  braver  bark  and  crew, 

Nor  bolder  Flag  a  foe  to  dare, 
Had  left  a  wake  on  ocean  blue 

Since  Lion-Heart  sailed  Trenc-le-mer ! 

But  little  gain  by  that  dark  ground 

Was  ours,  save,  sometime,  freer  breath 


22? 


For  friend  or  brother  strangely  found, 
'Scaped  from  the  drear  domain  of  death. 

And  little  venture  for  the  bold, 
Or  laurel  for  our  valiant  Chief, 
Save  some  blockaded  British  thief, 

Full  fraught  with  murder  in  his  hold, 

Caught  unawares  at  ebb  or  flood, 
Or  dull  bombardment,  day  by  day, 
With  fort  and  earthwork,  far  away, 

Low  couched  in  sullen  leagues  of  mud. 

A  weary  time,  —  but  to  the  strong 
The  day  at  last,  as  ever,  came  ; 

And  the  volcano,  laid  so  long, 

Leaped  forth  in  thunder  and  in  flame  ! 

"  Man  your  starboard  battery  /" 
Kimberly  shouted  ;  — 
The  ship,  with  her  hearts  of  oak, 
Was  going,  'mid  roar  and  smoke, 

On  to  victory! 
None  of  us  doubted, 
No,  not  our  dying  — 
Farragut's  Flag  was  flying  ! 

Gaines  growled  low  on  our  left, 

Morgan  roared  on  our  right  ; 
Before  us,  gloomy  and  fell, 
With  breath  like  the  fume  of  hell, 
Lay  the  Dragon  of  iron  shell, 

Driven  at  last  to  the  fight  ! 

Ha,  old  ship  !  do  they  thrill, 

The  brave  two  hundred  scars 

You  got  in  the  River-  Wars  ? 
That  were  leeched  with  clamorous  skill, 

(Surgery  savage  and  hard,) 
Splinted  with  bolt  and  beam, 
Probed  in  scarfing  and  seam, 

Rudely  linted  and  tarred 
With  oakum  and  boiling  pitch, 


22B 


And  sutured  with  splice  and  hitch, 
At  the  Brooklyn  Navy-Yard  ! 

Our  lofty  spars  were  down, 
To  hide  the  battle's  frown 
(Wont  of  old  renown)  — 
But  every  ship  was  drest 
In  her  bravest  and  her  best, 

As  if  for  a  July  day  ; 
Sixty  flags  and  three, 

As  we  floated  up  the  bay  — 
At  every  peak  and  mast-head  flew 
The  brave  Red,  White,  and  Blue,  — 

We  were  eighteen  ships  that  day. 

With  hawsers  strong  and  taut, 
The  weaker  lashed  to  port, 

On  we  sailed  two  by  two  — 
That  if  either  a  bolt  should  feel 
Crash  through  caldron  or  wheel, 
Fin  of  bronze,  or  sinew  of  steel, 

Her  mate  might  bear  her  through. 

Forging  boldly  ahead, 
The  great  Flag-Ship  led, 

Grandest  of  sights  ! 
On  her  lofty  mizzen  flew 
Our  Leader's  dauntless  Blue, 

That  had  waved  o'er  twenty  fights 
So  we  went  with  the  first  of  the  tide, 

Slowly,  'mid  the  roar 

Of  the  rebel  guns  ashore 
And  the  thunder  of  each  full  broadside. 

Ah,  how  poor  the  prate 
Of  statute  and  state 

We  once  held  with  these  fellows  ! 
Here  on  the  flood's  pale-green, 

Hark  how  he  bellows, 

Each  bluff  old  Sea-Lawyer  1 
Talk  to  them,  Dahlgren, 

Parrott,  and  Sawyer  I 


229 


On,  in  the  whirling  shade 

Of  the  cannon's  sulphury  breath, 
We  drew  to  the  Line  of  Death 

That  our  devilish  Foe  had  laid, — 

Meshed  in  a  horrible  net, 
And  baited  villainous  well, 

Right  in  our  path  were  set 
Three  hundred  traps  of  hell ! 

And  there,  O  sight  forlorn  ! 
There,  while  the  cannon 

Hurtled  and  thundered, — 
(Ah,  what  ill  raven 
Flapped  o'er  the  ship  that  morn !) — 
Caught  by  the  under-death, 
In  the  drawing  of  a  breath 
Down  went  dauntless  Craven, 
He  and  his  hundred  ! 

A  moment  we  saw  her  turret, 

A  little  heel  she  gave, 
And  a  thin  white  spray  went  o'er  her, 

Like  the  crest  of  a  breaking  wave; — 
In  that  great  iron  coffin, 

The  channel  for  their  grave, 

The  fort  their  monument, 
(Seen  afar  in  the  offing), 
Ten  fathom  deep  lie  Craven 

And  the  bravest  of  our  brave. 

Then  in  that  deadly  track 
A  little  the  ships  held  back, 

Closing  up  in  their  stations  ; — 
There  are  minutes  that  fix  the  fate 

Of  battles  and  of  nations, 

(Christening  the  generations,) 
When  valor  were  all  too  late, 

If  a  moment's  doubt  be  harbored ; — 
From  the  maintop,  bold  and  brief, 
Came  the  word  of  our  grand  old  chief : 
"  Go  on  I " — 'twas  all  he  said, — 


Our  helm  was  put  to  starboard, 
And  the  Hartford  passed  ahead, 

Ahead  lay  the  Tennessee, 

On  our  starboard  bow  he  lay, 
With  his  mail-clad  consorts  three 

(The  rest  had  run  up  the  Bay) ; 
There  he  was,  belching  flame  from  his  bow, 
And  the  steam  from  his  throat's  abyss 
Was  a  Dragon's  maddened  hiss ; 

In  sooth  a  most  cursed  craft ! — 
In  a  sullen  ring,  at  bay, 
By  the  Middle  Ground  they  lay, 

Raking  us  fore  and  aft. 

Trust  me,  our  berth  was  hot, 

Ah,  wickedly  well  they  shot — 
How  their  death-bolts  howled  and  stung  ! 

And  the  water-batteries  played 

With  their  deadly  cannonade 
Till  the  air  around  us  rung ; 
So  the  battle  raged  and  roared ; — 
Ah,  had  you  been  aboard 

To  have  seen  the  fight  we  made ! 

How  they  leaped,  the  tongues  of  flame, 

From  the  cannon's  fiery  lip ! 
How  the  broadsides,  deck  and  frame, 

Shook  the  great  ship  ! 

And  how  the  enemy's  shell 

Came  crashing,  heavy  and  oft, 

Clouds  of  splinters  flying  aloft 
And  falling  in  oaken  showers  ; — 

But  ah,  the  pluck  of  the  crew ! 
Had  you  stood  on  that  deck  of  ours, 

You  had  seen  what  men  may  do. 
Still,  as  the  fray  grew  louder, 

Boldly  they  worked  and  well — 
Steadily  came  the  powder, 

Steadily  came  the  shell. 


231 


And  if  tackle  or  truck  found  hurt, 
Quickly  they  cleared  the  wreck  — 

And  the  dead  were  laid  to  port, 
All  a-row,  on  our  deck. 

Never  a  nerve  that  failed, 

Never  a  cheek  that  paled, 
Not  a  tinge  of  gloom  or  pallor  ;  — 

There  was  bold  Kentucky's  grit, 
And  the  old  Virginian  valor, 

And  the  daring  Yankee  wit. 

There  were  blue  eyes  from  turfy  Shannon, 
There  were  black  orbs  from  palmy  Niger, 

But  there,  alongside  the  cannon, 
Each  man  fought  like  a  tiger  ! 

A  little,  once,  it  looked  ill, 

Our  consort  began  to  burn  — 
They  quenched  the  flames  with  a  will, 
But  our  men  were  falling  still, 

And  still  the  fleet  was  astern. 

Right  abreast  of  the  Fort 

In  an  awful  shroud  they  lay, 

Broadsides  thundering  away, 
And  lightning  from  every  port  ; 

Scene  of  glory  and  dread  ! 
A  storm-cloud  all  aglow 

With  flashes  of  fiery  red, 
The  thunder  raging  below, 

And  the  forest  of  flags  o'erhead  ! 

So  grand  the  hurly  and  roar, 

So  fiercely  their  broadsides  blazed, 

The  regiments  fighting  ashore 
Forgot  to  fire  as  they  gazed. 

There,  to  silence  the  Foe, 
Moving  grimly  and  slow, 
They  loomed  in  that  deadly  wreath, 


232 


Where  the  darkest  batteries  frowned. 
Death  in  the  air  all  round, 
And  the  black  torpedoes  beneath  I 

And  now,  as  we  looked  ahead, 

All  for'ard,  the  long  white  deck 
Was  growing  a  strange  dull  red,- 

But  soon,  as  once  and  again 
Fore  and  aft  we  sped, 

(The  firing  to  guide  or  check,) 
You  could  hardly  choose  but  tread 

On  the  ghastly  human  wreck, 
(Dreadful  gobbet  and  shred 

That  a  minute  ago  were  men  !) 

Red,  from  mainmast  to  bitts  ! 

Red,  on  bulwark  and  wale, 
Red,  by  combing  and  hatch, 

Red,  o'er  netting  and  vail ! 

And  ever,  with  steady  con, 
The  ship  forged  slowly  by, — 

And  ever  the  crew  fought  on, 

And  their  cheers  rang  loud  and  high. 

Grand  was  the  sight  to  see 
How  by  their  guns  they  stood, 

Right  in  front  of  our  dead, 
Fighting  square  abreast — 
Each  brawny  arm  and  chest 

All  spotted  with  black  and  red, 
Chrism  of  fire  and  blood  ! 

Worth  our  watch,  dull  and  sterile, 

Worth  all  the  weary  time, 
Worth  the  woe  and  the  peril, 

To  stand  in  that  strait  sublime  1 

Fear  ?     A  forgotten  form  ! 

Death  ?     A  dream  of  the  eyes ! 
We  were  atoms  in  God's  great  storm 

That  roared  through  the  angry  skies. 


233 


One  only  doubt  was  ours, 

One  only  dread  we  knew, — 
Could  the  day  that  dawned  so  well 
Go  down  for  the  Darker  Powers  ? 

Would  the  fleet  get  through  ? 
And  ever  the  shot  and  shell 
Came  with  the  howl  of  hell, 
The  splinter-clouds  rose  and  fell, 

And  the  long  line  of  corpses  grew, — 

Would  the  fleet  win  through  ? 

They  are  men  that  never  will  fail, 
(How  aforetime  they've  fought !) 

But  Murder  may  yet  prevail, — 
They  may  sink  as  Craven  sank. 

Therewith  one  hard  fierce  thought, 

Burning  on  heart  and  lip, 

Ran  like  fire  through  the  ship  : 
Fight  her,  to  the  last  plank  ! 

A  dimmer  renown  might  strike 
If  Death  lay  square  alongside, — 

But  the  Old  Flag  has  no  like, 

She  must  fight,  whatever  betide  ;- — 

When  the  War  is  a  tale  of  old, 

And  this  day's  story  is  told, 
They  shall  hear  how  the  Hartford  died! 

But  as  we  ranged  ahead, 

And  the  leading  ships  worked  in, 
Losing  their  hope  to  win, 

The  enemy  turned  and  fled — 

And  one  seeks  a  shallow  reach  : 
And  another,  winged  in  her  flight, 
Our  mate,  brave  Jouett,  brings  in  ; — 
And  one,  all  torn  in  the  fight, 

Runs  for  a  wreck  on  the  beach, 

Where  her  flames  soon  fire  the  night. 

And  the  Ram,  when  well  up  the  Bay, 
And  we  looked  that  our  stems  should  meet, 


234 


(He  had  us  fair  for  a  prey,) 
Shifting  his  helm  midway, 

Sheered  off,  and  ran  for  the  fleet ; 
There,  without  skulking  or  sham, 

He  fought  them  gun  for  gun  ; 
And  ever  he  sought  to  ram, 

But  could  finish  never  a  one. 

From  the  first  of  the  iron  shower 
Till  we  sent  our  parting  shell, 

'Twas  just  one  savage  hour 

Of  the  roar  and  the  rage  of  hell. 

With  the  lessening  smoke  and  thunder, 
Our  glasses  around  we  aim, — 

What  is  that  burning  yonder  ? 

Our  Philippi — aground  and  in  flame! 

Below,  'twas  still  all  a-roar, 
As  the  ships  went  by  the  shore, 

But  the  fire  of  the  Fort  had  slacked, 
(So  fierce  their  volleys  had  been,) — 
And  now  with  a  mighty  din, 
The  whole  fleet  came  grandly  in, 

Though  sorely  battered  and  wracked. 

So,  up  the  Bay  we  ran, 

The  Flag  to  port  and  ahead, — 
And  a  pitying  rain  began 

To  wash  the  lips  of  our  dead. 

A  league  from  the  Fort  we  lay, 

And  deemed  that  the  end  must  lag, — 

When  lo  !  looking  down  the  Bay, 
There  flaunted  the  Rebel  Rag  ; — 

The  Ram  is  again  under  way 
And  heading  dead  for  the  Flag ! 

Steering  up  with  the  stream, 

Boldly  his  course  he  lay, 
Though  the  fleet  all  answered  his  fire, 
And,  as  he  still  drew  nigher, 


235 


Ever  on  bow  and  beam 

Our  Monitors  pounded  away; 

How  the  Chickasaw  hammered  away  ! 

Quickly  breasting  the  wave, 

Eager  the  prize  to  win, 
First  of  us  all  the  brave 

Monongahela  went  in 
Under  full  head  of  steam  ; — 
Twice  she  struck  him  abeam, 
Till  her  stem  was  a  sorry  work, 

(She  might  have  run  on  a  crag !) 
The  Lackawana  hit  fair, 
He  flung  her  aside  like  cork, 

And  still  he  held  for  the  Flag. 

High  in  the  mizzen  shroud, 

(Lest  the  smoke  his  sight  o'erwhelm,) 
Our  Admiral's  voice  rang  loud  : 

"  Hard-a-starboard your  helm  ! 
Starboard,  and  run  him  down  !  " 

Starboard  it  was, — and  so, 
Like  a  black  squall's  lifting  frown, 
Our  mighty  bow  bore  down 

On  the  iron  beak  of  the  Foe. 

We  stood  on  the  deck  together, 
Men  that  had  looked  on  death 

In  battle  and  stormy  weather ; 
Yet  a  little  we  held  our  breath, 
When,  with  the  hush  of  death, 

The  great  ships  drew  together. 

Our  Captain  strode  to  the  bow, 

Drayton,  courtly  and  wise, 

Kindly  cynic,  and  wise, 
(You  hardly  had  known  him  now, 

The  flame  of  fight  in  his  eyes !) — 
His  brave  heart  eager  to  feel 
How  the  oak  would  tell  on  the  steel  I 


230 


But,  as  the  space  grew  short, 

A  little  he  seemed  to  shun  us  ; 
Out  peered  a  form  grim  and  lanky, 
And  a  voice  yelled,  "  Hard-a-port  ! 
Hard-a-port  !  —  here's  the  damned  Yankee 

Coming  right  down  on  us  /  " 

He  sheered,  but  the  ships  ran  foul 
With  a  gnarring  shudder  and  growl  : 

He  gave  us  a  deadly  gun  ; 
But  as  he  passed  in  his  pride, 
(Rasping  right  alongside  !) 

The  Old  Flag,  in  thunder-tones 
Poured  in  her  port  broadside, 
Rattling  his  iron  hide 

And  cracking  his  timber-bones  ! 

Just  then,  at  speed  on  the  Foe, 

With  her  bow  all  weathered  and  brown, 
The  great  Lackawana  came  down 

Full  tilt,  for  another  blow  ;  — 

We  were  forging  ahead, 

She  reversed  —  but,  for  all  our  pains, 

Rammed  the  old  Hartford,  instead, 
Just  for'ard  the  mizzen  chains  ! 

Ah  !  how  the  masts  did  buckle  and  bend, 

And  the  stout  hull  ring  and  reel, 
As  she  took  us  right  on  end  ! 

(Vain  were  engine  and  wheel, 

She  was  under  full  steam,)  — 
With  the  roar  of  a  thunder-stroke 
Her  two  thousand  tons  of  oak 

Brought  up  on  us,  right  abeam  1 

A  wreck,  as  it  looked,  we  lay,  — 
(Rib  and  plank  shear  gave  way 

To  the  stroke  of  that  giant  wedge  !) 
Here,  after  all,  we  go  — 
The  old  ship  is  gone  !  —  ah,  no, 

But  cut  to  the  water's  edge. 


Never  mind  then, — at  him  again ! 

His  flurry  now  can't  last  long; 
He'll  never  again  see  land, — 
Try  that  on  htm,  Marchand  ! 

On  him  again,  brave  Strong ! 

Heading  square  at  the  hulk, 

Full  on  his  beam  we  bore  ; 
But  the  spine  of  the  huge  Sea-Hog 
Lay  on  the  tide  like  a  log, 

He  vomited  flame  no  more. 

By  this,  he  had  found  it  hot ; — 
Half  the  fleet,  in  an  angry  ring, 
Closed  round  the  hideous  thing, 

Hammering  with  solid  shot, 

And  bearing  down,  bow  on  bow ; 
He  has  but  a  minute  to  choose, — 

Life  or  renown  ? — which  now 
Will  the  Rebel  Admiral  lose  ? 

Cruel,  haughty,  and  cold, 

He  ever  was  strong  and  bold  ; — 

Shall  he  shrink  from  a  wooden  stem  ? 
He  will  think  of  that  brave  band 
He  sank  in  the  Cumberland ; — 

Ay,  he  will  sink  like  them. 

Nothing  left  but  to  fight 
Boldly  his  last  sea-fight ! 

Can  he  strike  ?     By  Heaven,  'tis  true ! 

Down  comes  the  traitor  Blue, 
And  up  goes  the  captive  White! 

Up  went  the  White  !     Ah,  then 
The  hurrahs  that  once  and  again 
Rang  from  three  thousand  men 

All  flushed  and  savage  with  fight  I 
Our  dead  lay  cold  and  stark ; 
But  our  dying,  down  in  the  dark, 

^Answered  as  best  they  might, 


230 


Lifting  their  poor  lost  arms, 
And  cheering  for  God  and  Right  ! 

Ended  the  mighty  noise, 

Thunder  of  forts  and   ships. 

Down  we  went  to  the  hold,- 
Oh,  our  dear  dying  boys  ! 

How  we  pressed  their  poor  brave  lips 

(Ah,  so  pallid  and  cold  !) 
And  held  their  hands  to  the  last, 

(Those  that  had  hands  to  hold.) 

Still  thee,  O  woman  heart  ! 

(So  strong  an  hour  ago  ;) 
If  the  idle  tears  must  start, 

'Tis  not  in  vain  they  flow. 

They  died,  our  children  dear, 

On  the  drear  berth-deck  they  died,  — 

Do  not  think  of  them  here  — 

Even  now  their  footsteps  near 

The  immortal,  tender  sphere  — 

(Land  of  love  and  cheer  ! 
Home  of  the  Crucified  !) 

And  the  glorious  deed  survives  ; 

Our  threescore,  quiet  and  cold, 
Lie  thus,  for  a  myriad  lives 

And  treasure-millions  untold,-— 
(Labor  of  poor  men's  lives, 
Hunger  of  weans  and  wives, 

Such  is  war-wasted  gold.) 

Our  ship  and  her  fame  to-day 
Shall  float  on  the  storied  Stream 

When  mast  and  shroud  have  crumbled  awayr 
And  her  long  white  deck  is  a  dream. 

One  daring  leap  in  the  dark, 

Three  mortal  hours,  at  the  most,— 

And  hell  lies  stiff  and  stark 
On  a  hundred  leagues  of  coast, 


239 


For  the  mighty  Gulf  is  ours, — 
The  bay  is  lost  and  won, 
An  Empire  is  lost  and  won ! 

Land,  if  thou  yet  hast  flowers, 

Twine  them  in  one  more  wreath 
Of  tenderest  white  and  red, 

(Twin  buds  of  glory  and  death  !) 
For  the  brows  of  our  brave  dead, 
For  thy  Navy's  noblest  son. 

Joy,  O  Land,  for  thy  sons, 
Victors  by  flood  and  field  ! 

The  traitor  walls  and  guns 

Have  nothing  left  but  to  yield  ; 
(Even  now  they  surrender  !) 

And  the  ships  shall  sail  once  more, 
And  the  cloud  of  war  sweep  on 

To  break  on  the  cruel  shore  ; — 
But  Craven  is  gone, 
He  and  his  hundred  are  gone. 

The  flags  flutter  up  and  down 
At  sunrise  and  twilight  dim, 

The  cannons  menace  and  frown, — 
But  never  again  for  him, 
Him  and  the  hundred. 

The  Dahlgrens  are  dumb, 
Dumb  are  the  mortars ; 

Never  more  shall  the  drum 
Beat  to  colors  and  quarters, — 
The  great  guns  are  silent. 

O  brave  heart  and  loyal ! 

Let  all  your  colors  dip ; — 

Mourn  him,  proud  ship ! 
From  main  deck  to  royal. 

God  rest  our  Captain, 

Rest  our  lost  hundred  I 


240 


Droop,  flag  and  pennant  ! 

What  is  your  pride  for  ? 

Heaven,  that  he  died  for, 
Rest  our  Lieutenant, 

Rest  our  brave  threescore  ! 

*  *  *  * 

O  Mother  Land  !  this  weary  life 

We  led,  we  lead,  is  'long  of  thee  ; 
Thine  the  strong  agony  of  strife, 

And  thine  the  lonely  sea. 

Thine  the  long  decks  all  slaughter-sprent, 

The  weary  rows  of  cots  that  lie 
With  wrecks  of  strong  men,  marred  and  rent, 

'Neath  Pensacola's  sky. 

And  thine  the  iron  caves  and  dens 
Wherein  the  flame  our  war-fleet  drives  ; 

The  fiery  vaults,  whose  breath  is  men's 
Most  dear  and  precious  lives  ! 

Ah,  ever,  when  with  storm  sublime 
Dread  Nature  clears  our  murky  air, 

Thus  in  the  crash  of  falling  crime 
Some  lesser  guilt  must  share. 

Full  red  the  furnace  fires  must  glow 
That  melt  the  ore  of  mortal  kind  : 

The  mills  of  God  are  grinding  slow, 
But  ah,  how  close  they  grind  ! 

To-day  the  Dahlgren  and  the  drum 
Are  dread  Apostles  of  His  Name  ; 

His  kingdom  here  can  only  come 
By  chrism  of  blood  and  flame. 

Be  strong  :  already  slants  the  gold 
Athwart  these  wild  and  stormy  skies  ; 

From  out  this  blackened  waste,  behold 
What  happy  homes  shall  rise  1 


But  see  thou  well  no  traitor  gloze, 

No  striking  hands  with  Death  and  Shame, 

Betray  the  sacred  blood  that  flows 
So  freely  for  thy  name. 

And  never  fear  a  victor  foe  : — 

Thy  children's  hearts  are  strong  and  high  ; 
Nor  mourn  too  fondly  ;  well  they  know 

On  deck  or  field  to  die. 

Nor  shalt  thou  want  one  willing  breath, 
Though,  ever  smiling  round  the  brave, 

The  blue  sea  bear  us  on  to  death, 
The  green  were  one  wide  grave. 

HENRY  HOWARD  BROWNELL. 


BIVOUAC  ON  A  MOUNTAIN  SIDE. 

I  SEE  before  me  now  a  travelling  army  halting, 
Below  a  fertile  valley  spread,  with  barns  and  the 

orchards  of  summer, 
Behind,  the  terraced  sides   of  a  mountain,  abrupt, 

in  places  rising  high, 
Broken,  with  rocks,  with  clinging  cedars,  with  tall 

shapes  dingily  seen, 
The  numerous  camp-fires  scattered  near  and  far, 

some  away  up  on  the  mountain, 
The  shadowy  forms  of  men  and  horses,  looming, 

large-sized,  flickering, 
And  over  all  the  sky — the  sky !  far,  far  out  of  reach, 

studded,  breaking  out,  the  eternal  stars. 

WALT  WHITMAN. 


242 


SHERIDAN'S  RIDE. 

[During  General  Sheridan' s  temporary  absence \  his  troops 
in  the  Shenandoah  Valley  were  surprised  and  routed  by 
the  Confederates  under  General  Early.  The  Union  com 
mander  hurried  to  the  front  in  time  to  rally  his  forces 
and  turn  defeat  into  victory — October  19,  1864.] 

UP  from  the  South  at  break  of  day, 
Bringing  to  Winchester  fresh  dismay, 
The  affrighted  air  with  a  shudder  bore, 
Like  a  herald  in  haste,  to  the  chieftain's  door, 
The  terrible  grumble,  and  rumble,  and  roar, 
Telling  the  battle  was  on  once  more, 
And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

And  wider  still  those  billows  of  war 
Thundered  along  the  horizon's  bar  ; 
And  louder  yet  into  Winchester  rolled 
The  roar  of  that  red  sea  uncontrolled, 
Making  the  blood  of  the  listener  cold, 
As  he  thought  of  the  stake  in  that  fiery  fray, 
And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

But  there  is  a  road  from  Winchester  town, 

A  good  broad  highway  leading  down ; 

And  there,  through  the  flush  of  the  morning  light, 

A  steed  as  black  as  the  steeds  of  night 

Was  seen  to  pass,  as  with  eagle  flight ; 

As  if  he  knew  the  terrible  need, 

He  stretched  away  with  his  upmost  speed ; 

Hills  rose  and  fell ;  but  his  heart  was  gay, 

With  Sheridan  fifteen  miles  away. 

Still  sprung  from  those  swift  hoofs,  thundering  South, 
The  dust,  like  smoke  from  the  cannon's  mouth, 
Or  the  trail  of  a  comet,  sweeping  faster  and  faster, 
Foreboding  to  traitors  the  doom  of  disaster. 
The  heart  of  the  steed  and  the  heart  of  the  master 
Were  beating  like  prisoners  assaulting  their  walls. 
Impatient  to  be  where  the  battlefield  calls  ; 


243 


Every  nerve  of  the  charger  was  strained  to  full  play, 
With  Sheridan  only  ten  miles  away. 

Under  his  spurning  feet,  the  road 

Like  an  arrowy  Alpine  river  flowed, 

And  the  landscape  sped  away  behind 

Like  an  ocean  flying  before  the  wind, 

And  the  steed,  like  a  barque  fed  with  furnace  ire, 

Swept  on,  with  his  wild  eye  full  of  fire. 

But  lo  !  he  is  nearing  his  heart's  desire  ; 

He  is  snuffing  the  smoke  of  the  roaring  fray, 

With  Sheridan  only  five  miles  away. 

The  first  that  the  General  saw  were  the  groups 
Of  stragglers,  and  then  the  retreating  troops  ; 
What  was  done  ?  what  to  do  ?  —  a  glance  told  him 

both  ; 

Then,  striking  his  spurs,  with  a  terrible  oath, 
He  dashed  down  the  line,  'mid  a  storm  of  huzzas, 
And  the  wave  of  retreat  checked  its  course  there, 

because 

The  sight  of  the  master  compelled  it  to  pause. 
With  foam  and  with  dust  the  black  charger  was  gray; 
By  the  flash  of  his  eye,  and  his  red  nostril's  play, 
He  seemed  to  the  whole  great  army  to  say  : 
"  I  have  brought  you  Sheridan  all  the  way 
From  Winchester  down  to  save  the  day  !" 

Hurrah,  hurrah  for  Sheridan  ! 
Hurrah,  hurrah  for  horse  and  man  ! 
And  when  their  statues  are  placed  on  high, 
Under  the  dome  of  the  Union  sky,  — 
The  American  soldiers'  Temple  of  Fame,- 
There  with  the  glorious  General's  name 
Be  it  said  in  letters  both  bold  and  bright  : 
"  Here  is  the  steed  that  saved  the  day 
By  carrying  Sheridan  into  the  fight, 
From  Winchester,  —  twenty  miles  away  !" 

THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ. 


244 


THE  CAVALRY  CHARGE. 

WITH  bray  of  the  trumpet 

And  roll  of  the  drum, 
And  keen  ring  of  bugle, 

The  cavalry  come. 
Sharp  clank  the  steel  scabbards, 

The  bridle-chains  ring, 
And  foam  from  red  nostrils 

The  wild  chargers  fling. 

Tramp  !  tramp  !  o'er  the  greensward 

That  quivers  below, 
Scarce  held  by  the  curb-bit 

The  fierce  horses  go  ! 
And  the  grim-visaged  colonel, 

With  ear-rending  shout, 
Peals  forth  to  the  squadrons 

The  order,—"  Trot  out  I  " 

One  hand  on  the  sabre, 

And  one  on  the  rein, 
The  troopers  move  forward 

In  line  on  the  plain. 
As  rings  the  word,  "  Gallop  /" 

The  steel  scabbards  clank, 
And  each  rowel  is  pressed 

To  a  horse's  hot  flank  : 
And  swift  is  their  rush 

As  the  wild  torrent's  flow, 
When  it  pours  from  the  crag 

On  the  valley  below. 

"  Charge  !  "  thunders  the  leader  : 

Like  shaft  from  the  bow 
Each  mad  horse  is  hurled 

On  the  wavering  foe. 
A  thousand  bright  sabres 

Are  gleaming  in  air  : 
A  thousand  dark  horses 

Are  dashed  on  the  square. 


245 


Resistless  and  reckless 

Of  aught  may  betide, 
Like  demons,  not  mortals, 

The  wild  troopers  ride. 
Cut  right !  and  cut  left  !— 

For  the  parry  who  needs  ? 
The  bayonets  shiver 

Like  wind-scattered  reeds. 

Vain — vain  the  red  volley 

That  bursts  from  the  square, — 
The  random-shot  bullets 

Are  wasted  in  air. 
Triumphant,  remorseless, 

Unerring  as  death, — 
No  sabre  that's  stainless 

Returns  to  its  sheath. 


Willi 


The  wounds  that  are  dealt 

By  that  murderous  steel 
never  yield  case 

For  the  surgeon  to  heal. 
Hurrah  !  they  are  broken — 

Hurrah  !  boys,  they  fly  ! 
None  linger  save  those 

Who  but  linger  to  die. 

Rein  up  your  hot  horses 

And  call  in  your  men, — 
The  trumpet  sounds  "Rally 

To  colors  "  again. 
Some  saddles  are  empty, 

Some  comrades  are  slain. 
And  some  noble  horses 

Lie  stark  on  the  plain  ; 
But  war's  a  chance  game,  boys, 

And  weeping  is  vain. 

FRANCIS  A.  DURIVAGK. 


240 


THE  CAVALRY  CHARGE. 

HARK  !  the  rattling  roll  of  the  musketeers, 

And  the  ruffled  drums,  and  the  rallying  cheers, 

And  the  rifles  burn  with  a  keen  desire 

Like  the  crackling  whips  of  a  hemlock  fire, 

And  the  singing  shot  and  the  shrieking  shell 

And  the  splintered  fire  of  the  shattered  hell, 

And  the  great  white  breaths  of  the  cannon  smoke 

As  the  growling  guns  by  batteries  spoke ; 

And  the  ragged  gaps  in  the  walls  of  blue 

Where  the  iron  surge  rolled  heavily  through, 

That  the  Colonel  builds  with  a  breath  again 

As  he  cleaves  the  din  with  his  "  Close  up,  men  !" 

And  the  groan  torn  out  from  the  blackened  lips, 

And  the  prayer  doled  slow  with  the  crimsoned  drips, 

And  the  beaming  look  in  the  dying  eye 

As  under  the  cloud  the  Stars  go  by, 

"  But  his  soul  marched  on  !"  the  Captain  said, 

For  the  Boy  in  Blue  can  never  be  dead  ! 

And  the  troopers  sit  in  their  saddles  all 

Like  statues  carved  in  an  ancient  hall, 

And  they  watch  the  whirl  from  their  breathlesr 

ranks, 

And  their  spurs  are  close  to  the  horses'  flanks, 
And  the  fingers  work  of  the  sabre  hand — 
Oh,  to  bid  them  live,  and  to  make  them  grand  ! 
And  the  bugle  sounds  to  the  charge  at  last, 
And  away  they  plunge,  and  the  front  is  passed  ! 
And  the  jackets  blue  grow  red  as  they  ride, 
And  the  scabbards  too,  that  clank  by  their  side, 
And  the  dead  soldiers  deaden  the  strokes  iron-shod 
As  they  gallop  right  on  o'er  the  plashy  red  sod — 
Right  into  the  cloud  all  spectral  and  dim, 
Right  up  to  the  guns  black-throated  and  grim, 
Right  down  on  the  hedges  bordered  with  steei, 
Right  through  the  dense  columns, — then  "Right 

about  wheel /" 


247 


Hurrah  !  a  new  swath  through  the  harvest  again  ! 
Hurrah  for  the  Flag!     To  the  battle,  Amen  ! 

BENJAMIN  F.  TAYLOR. 


THE  CHARGE  BY  THE  FORD. 

EIGHTY  and  nine  with  their  captain 

Rode  on  the  enemy's  track, 
Rode  in  the  gray  of  the  morning  : 

Nine  of  the  ninety  came  back. 

Slow  rose  the  mist  from  the  river, 
Lighter  each  moment  the  way  ; 

Careless  and  tearless  and  fearless 
Galloped  they  on  to  the  fray. 

Singing  in  tune,  how  the  scabbards 
Loud  on  the  stirrup-irons  rang, 

Clinked  as  the  men  rose  in  saddle, 
Fell  as  they  sank  with  a  clang. 

What  is  it  moves  by  the  river, 

Jaded  and  weary  and  weak  ? 
Gray-backs — a  cross  on  their  banner — 

Yonder  the  foe  whom  they  seek. 

Silence  !     They  see  not,  they  hear  not, 

Tarrying  there  by  the  marge  : 
Forward!  Draw  sabre!  Trot!   Gallop! 
Charge  !  like  a  hurricane,  charge  / 

Ah  !  'twas  a  man-trap  infernal — 

Fire  like  the  deep  pit  of  hell ! 
Volley  on  volley  to  meet  them, 

Mixed  with  the  gray  rebels'  yell. 

Ninety  had  ridden  to  battle, 

Tracing  the  enemy's  track, — 
Ninety  had  ridden  to  battle, 

Nine  of  the  ninety  came  back. 


240 


Honor  the  name  of  the  ninety  ; 

Honor  the  heroes  who  came 
Scathless  from  five  hundred  muskets, 

Safe  from  the  lead-bearing  flame. 

Eighty  and  one  of  the  troopers 

Lie  on  the  field  of  the  slain  — 
Lie  on  the  red  field  of  honor  : 

Honor  the  nine  who  remain  ! 

Cold  are  the  dead  there,  and  gory, 

There  where  their  life-blood  was  spilt  ; 

Back  come  the  living,  each  sabre 
Red  from  the  point  to  the  hilt. 

Give  them  three  cheers  and  a  tiger  ! 

Let  the  flags  wave  as  they  come  ! 
Give  them  the  blare  of  the  trumpet  ! 

Give  them  the  roll  of  the  drum  ! 

THOMAS  DUNN  ENGLISH, 


CAVALRY  SONG. 

OUR  good  steeds  snuff  the  evening  air, 

Our  pulses  with  their  purpose  tingle ; 
The  foeman's  fires  are  twinkling  there  ; 
He  leaps  to  hear  our  sabres  jingle  ! 

HALT  ! 

Each  carbine  sends  its  whizzing  ball : 
Now,  cling !  clang  !  forward  all. 
Into  the  fight ! 

Dash  on  beneath  the  smoking  dome  : 
Through  level  lightnings  gallop  nearer  ! 

One  look  to  Heaven  !     No  thoughts  of  home ; 
The  guidons  that  we  bear  are  dearer. 
CHARGE! 


249 


Cling !  clang !  forward  all ! 
Heaven  help  those  whose  horses  fall  ! 
Cut  left  and  right ! 

They  flee  before  our  fierce  attack  ! 

They  fall !  they  spread  in  broken  surges  ! 
Now,  comrades,  bear  our  wounded  back, 
And  leave  the  foeman  to  his  dirges. 

WHEEL! 

The  bugles  sound  the  swift  recall : 
Cling  !  clang  !  backward  all ! 
Home,  and  good-night ! 
EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN. 


THE  WATCHERS. 

BESIDE  a  stricken  field  I  stood  ; 
On  the  torn  turf,  on  grass  and  wood, 
Hung  heavily  the  dew  of  blood. 

Still  in  their  fresh  mounds  lay  the  slain, 
But  all  the  air  was  quick  with  pain 
And  gusty  sighs  and  tearful  rain. 

Two  angels,  each  with  drooping  head, 
And  folded  wings  and  noiseless  tread, 
Watched  by  that  valley  of  the  dead. 

The  one,  with  forehead  saintly  bland, 
And  lips  of  blessing,  not  command, 
Leaned,  weeping,  on  her  olive  wand. 

The  other's  brows  were  scarred  and  knit, 
His  restless  eyes  were  watch-fires  lit, 
His  hands  for  battle-gauntlets  fit. 

"  How  long," — I  knew  the  voice  of  Peace ; 
"  Is  there  no  respite  ? — no  release? — 
When  shall  the  hopeless  quarrel  cease  ? 


250 


"  O  Lord,  how  long  !  —  One  human  soul 
Is  more  than  any  parchment  scroll, 
Or  any  flag  thy  winds  unroll. 

"  What  price  was  Ellsworth's,  young  and  brave  ? 
How  weigh  the  gift  that  Lyon  gave, 
Or  count  the  cost  of  Winthrop's  grave? 

"  O  brother  !  if  thine  eye  can  see, 
Tell  how  and  when  the  end  shall  be, 
What  hope  remains  for  thee  and  me." 

Then  Freedom  sternly  said  :  "  I  shun 
No  strife  nor  pang  beneath  the  sun, 
When  human  rights  are  staked  and  won. 

'•'  I  knelt  with  Ziska's  hunted  flock, 
I  watched  in  Toussaint's  cell  of  rock, 
I  walked  with  Sidney  to  the  block. 

"  The  moor  of  Marston  felt  my  tread, 
Through  Jersey  snows  the  march  I  led, 
My  voice  Magenta's  charges  sped. 

"  But  now  through  weary  day  and  night 
I  watch  a  vague  and  aimless  fight, 
For  leave  to  strike  one  blow  aright. 

"  On  either  side  my  foe  they  own  : 

One  guards  through  love  his  ghastly  throne, 

And  one  through  fear  to  reverence  grown. 

"  Why  wait  we  longer,  mocked,  betrayed, 

By  open  foes,  or  those  afraid 

To  speed  thy  coming  through  my  aid  ? 

"  Why  watch  to  see  who  win  or  fall  ?  — 

I  shake  the  dust  against  them  all, 

I  leave  them  to  their  senseless  brawl." 

"  Nay,"  Peace  implored  :  "  yet  longer  wait  • 
The  doom  is  near,  the  stake  is  great, 
God  knoweth  if  it  be  too  late. 


251 


"  Still  wait  and  watch  ;  the  way  prepare 
Where  I  with  folded  wings  of  prayer 
May  follow,  weaponless  and  bare." 

"Too  late  !"  the  stern  sad  voice  replied, 
"  Too  late !"  its  mournful  echo  sighed, 
In  low  lament  the  answer  died. 

A  rustling  as  of  wings  in  flight, 

An  upward  gleam  of  lessening  white, 

So  passed  the  vision,  sound  and  sight. 

But  round  me,  like  a  silver  bell 
Rung  down  the  listening  sky  to  tell 
Of  holy  help,  a  sweet  voice  fell. 

"  Still  hope  and  trust,"  it  sang ;  "  the  rod 
Must  fall,  the  wine-press  must  be  trod, 
But  all  is  possible  with  God  !" 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 


MY  AUTUMN  WALK. 
[October,  1864.] 

ON  woodlands  ruddy  with  autumn 

The  amber  sunshine  lies ; 
I  look  on  the  beauty  round  me, 

And  tears  come  into  my  eyes. 

For  the  wind  that  sweeps  the  meadows 
Blows  out  of  the  far  Southwest, 

Where  our  gallant  men  are  fighting, 
And  the  gallant  dead  are  at  rest. 

The  golden-rod  is  leaning, 
And  the  purple  aster  waves 

In  a  breeze  from  the  land  of   battles, 
A  breath  from  the  land  of  graves. 


252 


Full  fast  the  leaves  are  dropping 
Before  that  wandering  breath  ; 

As  fast,  on  the  field  of  battle, 
Our  brethren  fall  in  death. 

Beautiful  over  my  pathway 

The  forest  spoils  are  shed  ; 
They  are  spotting  the  grassy  hillocks 

With  purple  and  gold  and  red. 

Beautiful  is  the  death-sleep 

Of  those  who  bravely  fight 
In  their  country's  holy  quarrel, 

And  perish  for  the  Right. 

But  who  shall  comfort  the  living, 
The  light  of  whose  homes  is  gone : 

The  bride  that,  early  widowed, 
Lives  broken-hearted  on  ; 

The  matron  whose  sons  are  lying 
In  graves  on  a  distant  shore  ; 

The  maiden,  whose  promised  husband 
Comes  back  from  the  war  no  more  ? 

I  look  on  the  peaceful  dwellings 
Whose  windows  glimmer  in  sight, 

With  croft  and  garden  and  orchard, 
That  bask  in  the  mellow  light ; 

And  I  know  that,  when  our  couriers 
With  news  of  victory  come, 

They  will  bring  a  bitter  message 
Of  hopeless  grief  to  some. 

Again  I  turn  to  the  woodlands, 

And  shudder  as  I  see 
The  mock-grape's  blood-red  banner 

Hung  out  on  the  cedar-tree : 


253 


And  I  think  of  days  of  slaughter, 
And  the  night-sky  red  with  flames, 

On  the  Chattahoochee's  meadows, 
And  the  wasted  banks  of  the  James. 

Oh,  for  the  fresh  spring-season, 

When  the  groves  are  in  their  prime  ; 

And  far  away  in  the  future 
Is  the  frosty  autumn-time  ! 

Oh,  for  that  better  season, 

When  the  pride  of  the  foe  shall  yield, 
And  the  hosts  of  God  and  Freedom 

March  back  from  the  well-won  field  ; 

And  the  matron  shall  clasp  her  first-born 

With  tears  of  joy  and  pride  ; 
And  the  scarred  and  war-worn  lover 

Shall  claim  his  promised  bride  ! 

The  leaves  are  swept  from  the  branches  ; 

But  the  living  buds  are  there, 
With  folded  flower  and  foliage, 

To  sprout  in  a  kinder  air. 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 


HYMN    OF    THE    MOTHERS    OF    OUR    VOL 
UNTEERS. 

HOME  calls  each  loved  familiar  name 
With  precious  memories  stored  : 

Deal  gently,  Lord  !    'Twas  not  for  fame 
Our  children  took  the  sword. 

We  never  thought,  when  each  young  face 

First  softly  touched  our  own, 
And  little  hands  with  sweet  embrace 

About  our  necks  were  thrown, 


254 


That  our  own  veins  were  nursing-  then 

The  holy  cause  of  Right, 
And  that  from  our  own  bosoms  men 

Would  spring  to  Freedom's  fight. 

We  deem  not  now  the  offering  vain, 

Our  dearest  though  we  give ; 
Nor  do  we  ask  release  from  pain, 

If  but  the  Nation  live. 

Still,  sometimes  as  alone  we  kneel 
Where  once  the  cradle  stood, 

So  much  comes  back — 'tis  hard  to  feel 
That  all  our  grief  is  good. 

The  rosy  cheeks  so  round  and  fair, 

The  pattering  little  feet, 
The  laughing  eyes  and  silken  hair 

Of  those  whose  touch  was  sweet. 

Rise  up  amid  the  glare  and  din 

Of  battle's  fiery  tide, 
And  flit  past  prison  bars,  within 

Which  love  is  crucified  I 

We  know  we  bade  them  go,  when  stirred 

The  land  from  sea  to  sea, 
For  'twas  Thy  voice,  O  Christ,  they  heard 

Proclaiming  liberty. 

But,  oh,  this  travail  long  and  sore, 

Watching  their  woeful  way, 
And  never  able  to  do  more 

Than  serve  at  home  and  pray. 

It  seems  as  if  the  mother's  hand 
Could  soothe  their  sufferings  best, 

And  that  the  mother  ought  to  stand 
By  children  laid  at  rest. 


255 


Forgive,  O  God,  our  doubts  and  fears 
While  Thy  great  work  goes  on  ; 

We  do  rejoice  amid  our  tears, 
And  pray,  "  Thy  will  be  done." 

Thy  will — good  will — its  message  now 
Of  promised  peace  grows  strong, 

And,  flashing  on  War's  awful  brow, 
Proclaims  the  doom  of  Wrong. 

It  is  enough.     Out  from  the  gloom 

Rises  a  nation  free. 
Still,  at  the  cross  and  by  the  tomb, 

We  cling,  O  Lord,  to  Thee. 

HORATIO  NELSON  POWERS. 


WOMAN'S  WAR  MISSION. 

FOLD  away  all  your  bright  tinted  dresses, 

Turn  the  key  on  your  jewels  to-day, 
And  the  wealth  of  your  tendril-like  tresses 

Braid  back,  in  a  serious  way : 
No  more  delicate  gloves,  no  more  laces, 

No  more  trifling  in  boudoir  and  bower ; 
But  come  with  your  souls  in  your  faces — 

To  meet  the  stern  needs  of  the  hour  ! 

Look  around  !     By  the  torchlight  unsteady, 

The  dead  and  the  dying  seem  one. 
What !  paling  and  trembling  already, 

Before  your  dear  mission's  begun  ? 
These  wounds  are  more  precious  than  ghastly 

Fame  presses  her  lips  to  each  scar, 
As  she  chants  of  a  glory  which  vastly 

Transcends  all  the  horrors  of  war. 

Pause  here  by  this  bedside — how  mellow 
The  light  showers  down  on  that  brow ! 


256 


Such  a  brave,  brawny  visage  ! — Poor  fellow  1 
Some  homestead  is  missing  him  now. 

Some  wife  shades  her  eyes  in  the  clearing, 
Some  mother  sits  moaning,  distressed, — 

While  the  loved  one  lies  faint,  but  unfearing, 
With  the  enemy's  ball  in  his  breast. 

Here's  another  ;  a  lad — a  mere  stripling — 

Picked  up  from  the  field,  almost  dead ; 
With  the  blood  through  his  sunny  hair  rippling 

From  a  horrible  gash  in  the  head. 
They  say  he  was  first  in  the  action, 

Gay-hearted,  quick-handed,  and  witty; 
He  fought  till  he  fell  with  exhaustion, 

At  the  gates  of  our  fair  Southern  city. 

Fought  and  fell  'neath  the  guns  of  that  city, 

With  a  spirit  transcending  his  years  ; 
Lift  him  up  in  your  large-hearted  pity, 

And  touch  his  pale  lips  with  your  tears. 
Touch  him  gently — most  sacred  the  duty 

Of  dressing  that  poor  shattered  hand  ! 
God  spare  him  to  rise  in  his  beauty, 

And  battle  once  more  for  the  land  ! 

Who  groaned  ?     What  a  passionate  murmur — 

"  In  thy  mercy,  O  God !  let  me  die  !  " 
Ha !  surgeon,  your  hand  must  be  firmer, 

That  grapeshot  has  shattered  his  thigh. 
Fling  the  light  on  those  poor  furrowed  features, 

Gray-haired  and  unknown — bless  the  brother ! 
O  God  !  that  one  of  thy  creatures 

Should  e'er  work  such  woe  on  another  ! 

Wipe  the  sweat  from  his  brow  with  your  kerchief ; 

Let  the  stained  tattered  collar  go  wide. 
See !  he  stretches  out  blindly  to  search  if 

The  surgeon  still  stands  at  his  side. 
"  My  son's  over  yonder  !  he's  wounded — 

Oh  !  this  ball  that  has  broken  my  thigh  I  " 


And  again  he  burst  out,  all  a-tremble, — 
"  In  thy  mercy,  O  God !  let  me  die  !  " 

Pass  on  !   It  is  useless  to  linger 

While  others  are  claiming  your  care  ; 
There  is  need  of  your  delicate  finger, 

For  your  womanly  sympathy,  there  ! 
There  are  sick  ones  athirst  for  caressing — 

There  are  dying  ones  raving  of  home — 
There  are  wounds  to  be  bound  with  a  blessing — 

And  shrouds  to  make  ready  for  some. 

They  have  gathered  about  you  the  harvest 

Of  death,  in  its  ghastliest  view  ; 
The  nearest  as  well  as  the  farthest 

Is  here  with  the  traitor  and  true! 
And  crowned  with  your  beautiful  patience, 

Made  sunny  with  love  at  the  heart, 
You  must  balsam  the  wounds  of  a  nation, 

Nor  falter,  nor  shrink  from  your  part ! 

Up  and  down  through  the  wards,  where  the  fever 

Stalks  noisome,  and  gaunt  and  impure, 
You  must  go  with  your  steadfast  endeavor 

To  comfort,  to  counsel,  to  cure  ! 
I  grant  that  the  task's  superhuman, 

But  strength  will  be  given  to  you 
To  do  for  those  dear  ones  what  woman 

Alone  in  her  pity  can  do. 

And  the  lips  of  the  mothers  will  bless  you 

As  angels  sweet  visaged  and  pale  ! 
And  the  little  ones  run  to  caress  you, 

While  the  wives  and  the  sisters  cry  "  Hail !" 
But  e'en  if  you  drop  down  unheeded, 

What  matter  ?     God's  ways  are  the  best ; 
You've  poured  out  your  life  where  'twas  needed, 

And  He  will  take  care  of  the  rest. 

ANONYMOUS  (Southern). 


A  WOMAN  OF  THE  WAR. 

[  The  story  told  in  this  poem  is  literally  true.  Its  hero 
ine,  Margaret  Augusta  Peterson,  lived  at  Rochester, 
N.  Y.;  and  when,  after  the  battles  of  the  Wilderness,  the 
hospitals  of  that  city  were  filled  with  wounded  men,  she 
offered  her  services,  and  was  accepted,  as  a  nurse,  at  St. 
Mary's  Hospital.  She  died  September  i,  1864,  at  the  age 
of  twenty-three  ;  and  her  grave  and  the  surgeon's  may  be 
seen  in  Mount  Hope  Cemetery,  Rochester. ,] 

THROUGH  the  sombre  arch  of  that  gateway  tower 
Where  my  humblest  townsman  rides  at  last, 

You  may  spy  the  bells  of  a  nodding  flower, 
On  a  double  mound  that  is  thickly  grassed. 

And  between  the  spring  and  the  summer  time, 

Or  ever  the  lilac's  bloom  is  shed, 
When  they  come  with  banners  and  wreaths  and 
rhyme, 

To  deck  the  tombs  of  the  nation's  dead, 

They  find  there  a  little  flag  in  the  grass, 

And  fling  a  handful  of  roses  down, 
And  pause  a  moment  before  they  pass 

To  the  Captain's  grave  with  the  gilded  crown. 

But  if  perchance  they  seek  to  recall 

What  name,  what  deeds,  these  honors  declare, 
They  cannot  tell,  they  are  silent  all 

As  the  noiseless  harebell  nodding  there. 

She  was  tall,  with  an  almost  manly  grace, 

And   young,   with   strange  wisdom   for  one  so 
young, 

And  fair  with  more  than  a  woman's  face  ; 
With  dark,  deep  eyes,  and  a  mirthful  tongue. 

The  poor  and  the  fatherless  knew  her  smile  ; 

The  friend  in  sorrow  had  seen  her  tears  ; 
She  had  studied  the  ways   of   the  rough  world's 
guile, 

And  read  the  romance  of  historic  years. 


259 


What  she  might  have  been  in  these  times  of  ours, 
At  once  it  is  easy  and  hard  to  guess ; 

For  always  a  riddle  are  half-used  powers, 
And  always  a  power  is  lovingness. 

But  her  fortunes  fell  upon  evil  days — 

If  days  are  evil  when  evil  dies, — 
And  she  was  not  one  who  could  stand  at  gaze 

Where  the  hopes  of  humanity  fall  and  rise. 

Nor  could  she  dance  to  the  viol's  tune 

When  the  drum  was  throbbing  throughout  the 

land, 
Or  dream  in  the  light  of  the  summer  moon 

When  Treason  was  clenching  his  mailed  hand. 

Through  the  long  gray  hospital's  corridor 
She  journeyed  many  a  mournful  league, 

And  her  light  foot  fell  on  the  oaken  floor 
As  if  it  never  could  know  fatigue. 

She  stood  by  the  good  old  surgeon's  side, 

And  the  sufferers  smiled  as  they  saw  her  stand ; 

She  wrote,  and  the  mothers  marvelled  and  cried 
At  their  darling  soldiers'  feminine  hand. 

She  was  last  in  the  ward  when  the  lights  burned  low, 
And  Sleep  called  a  truce  to  his  foeman  Pain ; 

At  the  midnight  cry  she  was  first  to  go, 
To  bind  up  the  bleeding  wound  again. 

For  sometimes  the  wreck  of  a  man  would  rise, 
Weird  and  gaunt  in  the  watch-lamp's  gleam, 

And  tear  away  bandage  and  splints  and  ties, 
Fighting  the  battle  all  o'er  in  his  dream. 

No  wonder  the  youngest  surgeon  felt 

A  charm  in  the  presence  of  that  brave  soul, 

Through  weary  weeks,  as  she  nightly  knelt 
With  the  letter  from  home  or  the  doctor's  dole. 


2611 


He  heard  her  called,  and  he  heard  her  blessed, 
With  many  a  patriot's  parting  breath  ; 

And  ere  his  soul  to  itself  confessed, 

Love  leaped  to  life  in  those  vigils  of  death. 

"  O,  fly  to  your  home  !"  came  a  whisper  dread, 
"  For  now  the  pestilence  walks  by  night." 

"  The  greater  the  need  of  me  here,"  she  said, 
And  bared  her  arm  for  the  lancet's  bite. 

Was  there  death,  green  death,  in  the  atmosphere  ? 

Was  the  bright  steel  poisoned  ?     Who  can  tell  ! 
Her  weeping  friends  gathered  beside  her  bier, 

And  the  clergyman  told  them  all  was  well. 

Well  —  alas  that  it  should  be  so  ! 

When  a  nation's  debt  reaches  reckoning-day  — 
Well  for  it  to  be  able,  but  woe 

To  the  generation  that's  called  to  pay  ! 

Down  from  the  long  gray  hospital  came 
Every  boy  in  blue  who  could  walk  the  floor  ; 

The  sick  and  the  wounded,  the  blind  and  the  lame. 
Formed  two  long  files  from  her  father's  door. 

There  was  grief  in  many  a  manly  breast, 
While  men's  tears  fell  as  the  coffin  passed  ; 

And  thus  she  went  to  the  world  of  rest, 
Martial  and  maidenly  up  to  the  last. 

And  that  youngest  surgeon,  was  he  to  blame?  — 
He  held  the  lancet  —  Heaven  only  knows. 

No  matter  ;  his  heart  broke  all  the  same, 
And  he  laid  him  down,  and  never  arose. 

So  Death  received,  in  his  greedy  hand, 
Two  precious  coins  of  the  awful  price 

That  purchased  freedom  for  this  dear  land  — 
For  master  and  bondman  —  yea,  bought  it  twice. 


Such  fates  too  often  such  women  are  for  ! 

God  grant  the  Republic  a  large  increase, 
To  match  the  heroes  in  time  of  war, 

And  mother  the  children  in  time  of  peace. 
ROSSITER  JOHNSON. 


THE  LAST  REGIMENT. 

["/»  a  pretty  little  village  in  Louisiana,  destroyed  by 
shells  toward  the  end  of  the  war,  on  a  bayou  back  from  the 
river,  a  great  number  of  very  old  men  had  been  left  by  their 
sons  and  grandsons,  while  they  went  to  the  war.  And  these 
old  men,  many  of  them  veterans  of  other  ivars,  formed 
themselves  into  a  regiment,  made  for  themselves  uniforms, 
picked  up  old  flint-lock  guns,  even  mounted  a  rusty  old  can 
non,  and  so  prepared  to  go  to  battle  if  ever  the  war  came 
within  their  reach.  Toward  the  close  of  the  war,  some  gun 
boats  came  down  the  river,  shelling  the  shore.  The  old  men 
heard  the  firing,  and,  gathering  together,  they  set  out  with 
their  old  muskets  and  rusty  old  cannon  to  try  to  reach 
the  river  over  the  corduroy  road  through  the  cypress 
swamp.  They  marched  out  right  merrily  that  hot  day, 
shouting  and  bantering  to  encourage  each  other,  the  dim 
fires  of  their  old  eyes  burning  wit/i  desire  of  battle,  al 
though  not  one  of  them  was  young  enough  or  strong  enough 
to  stand  erect.  And  they  never  came  back  any  more.  The 
shells  from  the  gunboats  set  the  dense  and  sultry  woods  on 
fire.  The  old  men  were  shut  in  by  the  flames — the  gray 
beards  and  the  gray  moss  and  the  gray  smoke  together."} 

THE  dying  land  cried  ;  they  heard  her  death  call ; 

These  bent,  bearded  men  stopped,  listened  in 
tent  ; 
Then  rusty  old  muskets  rushed  down  from  the  wall, 

And  squirrel-guns  gleamed  in  that  regiment, 
And  grandsires  marched,  old  muskets  in  hand, 
The  last  men  left  in  the  whole  Southland. 

The  gray  grandsires  !     They  were  seen  to  reel, 
Their  rusty  old  muskets  a  wearisome  load : 


202 


They  marched,  scarce  tall  as  the  cannon's  wheel, 

Marched  merrily  on  up  the  corduroy  road  ; 
These  gray  old  boys,  all  broken  and  bent, 
Marched  out,  the  gallant  last  regiment. 

But,  oh  !  that  march  through  the  cypress  trees, 
When  zest  and  excitement  had  died  away  ! 

That   desolate   march  through   the   marsh  to  the 

knees — 
These  gray  grandsires  in  their  robes  of  gray, 

These  gray  grandsires  all  broken  and  bent, — 

The  gray  moss  mantling  the  regiment. 

The  gray  bent  men  and  the  mosses  gray  ! 

The  dull  dead  gray  of  the  uniform  ! 
The  dull  dead  skies,  like  to  lead  that  day, 

Dull,  dead,  heavy,  and  deathly  warm  ! 
Oh,  what  meant  more  than  the  cypress  meant, 
With  its  mournful  moss,  to  that  regiment  ? 

That  deadly  march  through  the  marshes  deep  I — 
That  sultry  day,  and  the  deeds  in  vain ! 

The  rest  on  the  cypress  roots,  the  sleep — 
The  sleeping  never  to  rise  again ! 

The  rust  on  the  guns  !     The  rust  and  the  rent — 

That  dying  and  desolate  regiment ! 

The  muskets  left  leaning  against  the  trees  ! 

The  cannon  wheels  clogged  from  the  moss  o'er- 

head ! 
The  cypress  trees  kneeling  on  obstinate  knees 

As  gray  men  kneeled  by  the  gray  men  dead ! 
A  lone  bird  rising,  long-legged  and  gray, 
Slow  rising,  and  rising,  and  drifting  away  ! 

The  dank  dead  mosses  gave  back  no  sound  ; 

The  drums  lay  silent  as  the  drummers  there; 
The  sultry  stillness  was  so  profound 

You  might  have  heard  an  unuttered  prayer; 
And  ever  and  ever,  and  far  away, 
Kept  drifting  that  desolate  bird  in  gray. 


263 


The  long  gray  shrouds  of  that  cypress  wood, 

Like   veils    that    sweep   where    the   gray   nuns 

weep  — 
That  cypress  moss  o'er  the  dankness  deep, 

Why,  the  cypress  roots  they  were  running  blood  ; 

And  to  right  and  to  left  lay  an  old  man  dead  — 

A  mourning  cypress  set  foot  and  head. 

'Twas  man  hunting  man  in  the  wilderness  there  ; 

'Twas  man  hunting  man,  and  hunting  to  slay  ; 

But  nothing  was  found  but  death  that  day, 
And  possibly  God,  in  that  poisonous  air  ; 
And  possibly  God  —  and  that  bird  in  gray 
Slow  rising,  and  rising,  and  drifting  away. 

Now  down  in  the  swamp  where  the  gray  men  fell 
The  fire-flies  volley  and  volley  at  night, 

And  black  men  belated  are  heard  to  tell 
Of  the  ghosts  in  gray  in  a  mimic  fight  — 

Of  the  ghosts  of  the  gallant  old  men  in  gray 

Who  silently  died  in  the  swamp  that  day. 

JOAQUIN  MILLER. 


"SHOT  THROUGH  THE  HEART." 

[In  memory  of  Lieutenant  John  R.  Porter,  of  Alabama, 
who  fell,  shot  through  the  heart,  at  the  battle  of  Frank- 
lin,  Tenn.,  November  30,  1864.] 

ACROSS  the  brown  and  wintry  morn, 

Borne  on  the  soft  wind's  wing, 
The  weird  sweet  chords  of  a  New  Year's  Song 

Are  struck  by  the  coming  Spring — 

Ah,  would  'twere  last  year's  Spring ! 

Under  the  leaves  the  violet  bends, 

Laden  with  scented  breath  ; 
Do  they  bend  and  blow  thus  sweetly 

Where  the  wooing  air  is  death  ? 
Can  flowers  bloom  in  death  ? 


264 


Out  in  the  bridal  robe  of  white 

Sweet  hawthorn  decks  the  lane ; 
Who  tuned  the  windharp's  thrilling  string 

To  the  sad,  sad  minor  strain  ? 

Hark  !  that  sad  minor  strain  ! 

I  think,  as  I  see  the  whitening  bloom 

Drift  down  in  a  fleecy  cloud, 
Not  of  the  mist  of  bridal  veils, 

But  the  chill  of  an  icy  shroud — 
Snow  is  the  soldier's  shroud. 

There's  a  whisper  of  crocus  and  hyacinth 

Where  fairies  watch  their  birth  ; 
Methinks  like  little  white  babes  they  lie, 

Still-born  on  their  mother-earth — 

Dead  babes  on  the  mother-earth. 

Where  the  dear  warm  blood  flowed  out  so  free, 
Did  the  wild  wind  steal  its  moans 

That  fill  me  with  anguish  of  unshed  tears  ? 
'Tis  the  Banshee's  shivering  groans  ! — 
List !  it  shivers,  and  sobs,  and  groans ! 

O  spirit  of  sorrow,  Banshee  white  ! 

Wail  on,  for  I  cannot  sleep  ; 
Coldness  and  darkness  wander  with  me, 
The  vigil  of  woe  to  keep — 

Pale  woe  her  watch  must  keep. 
***** 

In  the  long,  long  march,  did  he  track  the  snow 

With  his  weary  bleeding  feet  ? 
Was  his  dear  face  cold  in  the  pelting  rain, 

Or  numbed  by  the  blinding  sleet  ? 

Barefoot  through  the  blinding  sleet ! 

Was  he  pale  from  the  pain,  the  hunger  pain, 

Or  did  he  step  proud  and  strong 
To  the  onward  note  from  the  bugle's  throat 

When  the  boys  cheered  loud  and  long  ? 
Oh,  the  march  was  long,  so  long ! 


Where,  where  is  the  sword  whose  gleaming  blade 

Flashed  up  against  the  sky, 
And  wrote  in  a  broad  white  quivering  line 

How  Southern  men  could  die  ! — 
Thus  martyrs  fighting  die ! 

Ho  !   Walthalls's  men,  and  Brantley's  line ! 

The  good  steel  must  not  rust ; 
His  name  must  be  the  battle-cry, 
His  murderers  bite  the  dust ! 

They  yet  shall  gnaw  the  dust ! 
***** 

"Shot  through  the  heart!"     My  own  stands  still, 

With  its  breaking,  breaking  pain  ; 
All,  all  grows  dark,  but  the  words  of  fire 

That  burn  my  reeling  brain — 
Rent  heart  and  aching  brain. 

Who  sprang  to  his  side  in  the  foremost  ranks, 

And  over  him  bent  the  knee, 
To  smooth  from  his  brow  the  dark  damp  hair, 

And  kiss  him  again  for  me  ? 

Who  kissed  his  dear  lips  for  me  ? 

Kind  stranger,  guard  that  sacred  spot ; 

He  died  to  free  thy  land  ; 
His  name  thou'lt  find  on  rude  head-board. 

Carved  there  by  pitying  hand — 
God  bless  that  soldier's  hand ! 

We've  watched  and  nursed  your  dying  ones, 
Have  wreathed  their  graves  with  flowers  • 

Will  any  gentle  hand  thus  wreathe 
That  holy  mound  of  ours  ? 

Oh,  shield  that  grave  of  ours ! 

Oh,  the  parching  thirst  and  numbing  cold 

And  the  hunger-pain  are  o'er ; 
The  weary  feet,  fresh-sandalled  now. 

Rest  on  the  golden  shore — 

Fair,  God-lit,  healing  shore. 


260 


In  his  threadbare  suit,  with  its  honor-stains, 

They  laid  him  down  to  rest ; 
Did  they  fold  our  flag,  with  its  spotless  stars. 

On  my  poor  dead  brother's  breast  ? 
Oh,  dear,  dear  bleeding  breast ! 

Oh,  say  that  I'm  mad  or  dreaming — 

That  Joy  will  come  once  more  ! 
Then  the  Summer  woods  of  the  bright  Southland 

May  leaf  as  they  leaved  of  yore ! 
With  Life  they  sprung  of  yore  ! 

Then  the  hills  may  don  their  arabesque, 

And  the  Arcenciel  may  shine, 
While  the  rose  on  the  cheek  of  the  blushing  year 

Woos  the  roses  back  to  mine  : 
The  roses  have  died  on  mine. 

No ;  the  Spring  will  pass,  and  Summer  fruit, 

And  Fall  sheaves  gild  the  ground  ; 
But  the  sad  weird  song  the  Banshee  sings 

Will  follow  the  whole  year  round — 

Dark  Winter  the  whole  year  round ! 

Down  in  the  glen,  the  dogwood  white, 

By  the  maple's  living  red, 
But  brings  to  mind  the  cold,  cold  sheet 

That  shrouds  the  bleeding  dead  ! — 
Snow  shrouds  our  darling  dead  ! 

Oh,  weary  Winter  has  almost  gone, 

With  its  Christmas  berries  swung ; 
They  seem  but  drops  of  human  blood 

From  human  anguish  wrung! 

O  God,  our  hearts  are  wrung  ! 

"  Killed  outright  /"— Oh,  wretched  dream  ! 

When,  when  shall  I  awake  ? 
If  the  words  ring  on,  thus  wildly  on, 
My  tortured  heart  must  break  ! — 
God  help  me  ere  it  break ! 

INA  MARIE  PORTER. 


aer 


SHERMAN'S  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

[This popular  song  was  written  while  its  author,  Adju 
tant  Byers,  of  the  Fifth  loiva  Regiment,  was  a  prisoner  at 
Columbia,  S.  L'.  Of  its  origin  he  says:  "  There  are  hun 
dreds  of  old  comrades  who  remember  the  afternoon  in  the 
prison-pen  at  Columbia  when  our  glee  club  said,  '  Now  we 
are  going  to  sing  something  about  Billy  Sherman  I '  and  with 
what  rousing  cheers  the  song  and  the  writer  were  welcomed. 

The  rebel  officers  ran  in  to  see  what  was  loose  among  the 
prisoners,  and  they,  too,  had  music  in  their  souls,  and  said 
if  the  glee  club  would  sing  '  Dixie  Land  '  they  might  sing 
'  Sherman '*  March  to  the  Sea '  also  ;  and  so  for  weeks  our 
glee  club — the  only  sunshine  we  had  in  prison— made  the 
old  barrack  walls  ring  with  songs  of  the  blue  and  the  gray" 

The  piece  attracted  the  attention  of  General  Sherman ,  who 
sent  for  the  author  and  attached  him  to  his  staff.} 

OUR  camp-fires  shone  bright  on  the  mountain 

That  frowned  on  the  river  below, 
As  we  stood  by  our  guns  in  the  morning. 

And  eagerly  watched  for  the  foe  ; 
When  a  rider  came  out  of  the  darkness 

That  hung  over  mountain  and  tree, 
And  shouted,  "  Boys,  up  and  be  ready  ! 

For  Sherman  will  march  to  the  sea ! " 

Then  cheer  upon  cheer  for  bold  Sherman 

Went  up  from  each  valley  and  glen, 
And  the  bugles  re-echoed  the  music 

That  came  from  the  lips  of  the  men  ; 
For  we  knew  that  the  stars  in  our  banner 

More  bright  in  their  splendor  would  be, 
And  that  blessings  from  Northland  would  greet  us 

When  Sherman  marched  down  to  the  sea. 

Then  forward,  boys  !  forward  to  battle ! 

We  marched  on  our  wearisome  way, 
We  stormed  the  wild  hills  of  Resaca — 

God  bless  those  who  fell  on  that  day ! 
Then  Kenesaw,  dark  in  its  glory, 

Frowned  down  on  the  flag  of  the  free ; 


aea 


But  the  East  and  the  West  bore  our  standard, 
And  Sherman  marched  on  to  the  sea. 

Still  onward  we  pressed,  till  our  banners 

Swept  out  from  Atlanta's  grim  walls, 
And  the  blood  of  the  patriot  dampened 

The  soil  where  the  traitor-flag  falls ; 
We  paused  not  to  weep  for  the  fallen 

Who  slept  by  each  river  and  tree, 
Yet  we  twined  them  a  wreath  of  the  laurel, 

As  Sherman  marched  down  to  the  sea. 

Oh,  proud  was  our  army  that  morning, 

That  stood  where  the  pine  darkly  towers, 
When  Sherman  said,  "  Boys,  you  are  weary, 

But  to-day  fair  Savannah  is  ours  !" 
Then  sang  we  the  song  of  our  chieftain, 

That  echoed  o'er  river  and  lea, 
And  the  stars  in  our  banner  shone  brighter 

When  Sherman  marched  down  to  the  sea. 

SAMUEL  H.  M.  BYERS. 


SONG  OF  SHERMAN'S  ARMY. 

A  PILLAR  of  fire  by  night, 

A  pillar  of  smoke  by  day, 
Some  hours  of  march — then  a  halt  to  fight, 

And  so  we  hold  our  way ; 
Some  hours  of  march — then  a  halt  to  fight, 

As  on  we  hold  our  way. 

Over  mountain  and  plain  and  stream, 

To  some  bright  Atlantic  bay, 
With  our  arms  aflash  in  the  morning  beam, 

We  hold  our  festal  way ; 
With  our  arms  aflash  in  the  morning  beam, 

We  hold  our  checkless  way. 


There  is  terror  wherever  we  come, 

There  is  terror  and  wild  dismay 
When  they  see  the  Old  Flag  and  hear  the  drum 

Announce  us  on  the  way  ; 
When  they  see  the  Old  Flag  and  hear  the  drum 

Beating  time  to  our  onward  way. 

Never  unlimber  a  gun 

For  those  villainous  lines  in  gray ; 
Draw  sabres,  and  at  'em  upon  the  run ! 

Tis  thus  we  clear  our  way ; 
Draw  sabres,  and  soon  you  will  see  them  run, 

As  we  hold  our  conquering  way. 

The  loyal,  who  long  have  been  dumb, 

Are  loud  in  their  cheers  to-day ; 
And  the  old  men  out  on  their  cratches  come, 

To  see  us  hold  our  way  ; 
And  the  old  men  out  on  their  crutches  come, 

To  bless  us  on  our  way. 

Around  us  in  rear  and  flanks 

Their  futile  squadrons  play ; 
With  a  sixty-mile  front  of  steady  ranks, 

We  hold  our  checkless  way  ; 
With  a  sixty-mile  front  of  serried  ranks, 

Our  banner  clears  the  way. 

Hear  the  spattering  fire  that  starts 

From  the  woods  and  copses  gray ! 
There  is  just  enough  fighting  to  quicken  our  hearts, 

As  we  frolic  along  the  way  ; 
There  is  just  enough  fighting  to  warm  our  hearts, 

As  we  rattle  along  the  way. 

Upon  different  roads  abreast 

The  heads  of  our  columns  gay, 
With  fluttering  flags  all  forward  prest, 

Hold  on  their  conquering  way; 
With  fluttering  flags  to  victory  prest, 

We  hold  our  glorious  way  I 


Ah,  traitors  who  bragged  so  bold 

In  the  sad  war's  early  day ! 
Did  nothing  predict  you  should  ever  behold 

The  Old  Flag  come  this  way  ? 
Did  nothing  predict  you  should  yet  behold 

Our  banner  come  back  this  way  ? 

By  Heaven  !    'tis  a  gala  march, 

Tis  a  picnic  or  a  play  ; 
Of  all  our  long  war,  'tis  the  crowning  arch, — 

Hip,  hip  !  for  Sherman's  way  ! 
Of  all  our  long  war,  this  crowns  the  arch, — 

For  Sherman  and  Grant,  hurra  ! 

CHARLES  G.  HALPINE. 


ETHIOPIA  SALUTING  THE  COLORS. 

WHO  are   you,  dusky  woman,  so  ancient,  hardly 

human, 
With  your  woolly-white   and   turban 'd  head,  and 

bare  bony  feet  ? 
Why,  rising  by  the  roadside  here,  do  you  the  colors 

greet  ? 

(Tis  while  our  army  lines  Carolina's  sands  and  pines. 
Forth  from  thy  hovel  door,  thou,  Ethiopia,  com'st  to 

me, 
As  under  doughty  Sherman  I  march  toward  the  sea.) 

Me,  master,  years  a  hundred,  since,  from  my  par 
ents  sundered, 

A  little  child,  they  caught  me  as  the  savage  beast 
is  caught, 

Then  hither  me  across  the  sea  the  cruel  slaver 
brought. 

No  further  does  she  say,  but  lingering  all  the  day, 
Her  high-borne  turban'd  head  she  wags,  and  rolls 
her  darkling  eye, 


And  courtesies  to  the  regiments,  the  guidons  mov 
ing  by. 

What  is  it,  fateful  woman,  so  blear,  hardly  human  ? 
Why  wag  your  head  with  turban  bound,  yellow,  red 

and  green  ? 
Are  the  things  so  strange  and  marvellous  you  see  or 

have  seen  ? 

WALT  WHITMAN. 


SAVANNAH. 

THOU  hast  not  drooped  thy  stately  head, 
Thy  woes  a  wondrous  beauty  shed  ! 
Not  like  a  lamb  to  slaughter  led, 
But  with  the  lion's  monarch  tread, 
Thou  comest  to  thy  battle  bed, 

Savannah  !  O  Savannah ! 

Thine  arm  of  flesh  is  girded  strong; 
The  blue  veins  swell  beneath  thy  wrong ; 
To  thee  the  triple  cords  belong 
Of  woe  and  death  and  shameless  wrong, 
And  spirit  vaunted  long,  too  long  ! 
Savannah !   O  Savannah ! 

No  blood-stains  spot  thy  forehead  fair ; 
Only  the  martyrs'  blood  is  there ; 
It  gleams  upon  thy  bosom  bier, 
It  moves  thy  deep,  deep  soul  to  prayer, 
And  tunes  a  dirge  for  thy  sad  ear, 
Savannah  !  O  Savannah  ! 

Thy  clean  white  hand  is  opened  wide 
For  weal  or  woe,  thou  Freedom  Bride  ; 
The  sword-sheath  sparkles  at  thy  side, 
Thy  plighted  troth,  whate'er  betide, 
Thou  hast  but  Freedom  for  thy  guide, 
Savannah  !  O  Savannah  1 


272 


What  though  the  heavy  storm-cloud  lowers, 
Still  at  thy  feet  the  old  oak  towers  ; 
Still  fragrant  are  thy  jessamine  bowers, 
And  things  of  beauty,  love,  and  flowers 
Are  smiling  o'er  this  land  of  ours, 

My  sunny  home,  Savannah  ! 

There  is  no  film  before  thy  sight,  — 
Thou  seest  woe  and  death  and  night, 
And  blood  upon  thy  banner  bright  ; 
But  in  thy  full  wrath's  kindled  might 
What  carest  thou  for  woe  or  night  ? 
My  rebel  home,  Savannah  ! 

Come  —  for  the  crown  is  on  thy  head  ! 
Thy  woes  a  wondrous  beauty  shed  ; 
Not  like  a  lamb  to  slaughter  led, 
But  with  the  lion's  monarch  tread, 
Oh  !  come  unto  thy  battle  bed, 
Savannah  !  O  Savannah  ! 

ALETHEA  S.  BURROUGHS. 


THE  FOE  AT   THE  GATES. 
[Charleston,  1865.] 

RING  round  her !  children  of  her  glorious  skies, 
Whom  she  hath  nursed  to  stature  proud  and  great; 

Catch  one  last  glance  from  her  imploring  eyes, 
Then  close  your  ranks  and  face  the  threatening 
fate. 

Ring  round  her !  with  a  wall  of  horrent  steel 
Confront  the  foe,  nor  mercy  ask  nor  give  ; 

And  in  her  hour  of  anguish  let  her  feel 

That  ye  can  die  whom  she  has  taught  to  live. 

Ring  round  her  !  swear,  by  every  lifted  blade, 
To  shield  from  wrong  the  mother  who  gave  you 
birth; 


273 


That  never  violent  hand  on  her  be  laid, 
Nor  base  foot  desecrate  her  hallowed  hearth. 

Curst  be  the  dastard  who  shall  halt  or  doubt  ! 

And  doubly  damned  who  casts  one  look  behind  ! 
Ye  who  are  men  !  with  unsheathed  sword,  and  shout, 

Up  with  her  banner  !  give  it  to  the  wind ! 

Peal  your  wild  slogan,  echoing  far  and  wide, 

Till  every  ringing  avenue  repeat 
The  gathering  cry,  and  Ashley's  angry  tide 

Calls  to  the  sea-waves  beating  round  her  feet. 

Sons,  to  the  rescue  !  spurred  and  belted,  come ! 

Kneeling,  with  clasp 'd  hands,  she  invokes  you  now 
By  the  sweet  memories  of  your  childhood's  home. 

By  every  manly  hope  and  filial  vow, 

To  save  her  proud  soul  from  that  loathfid  thrall 
Which  yet  her  spirit  cannot  brook  to  name  ; 

Or,  if  her  fate  be  near,  and  she  must  fall, 
Spare  her — she  sues — the  agony  and  shame. 

From  all  her  fanes  let  solemn  bells  be  tolled ; 

Heap  with  kind  hands  her  costly  funeral  pyre, 
And  thus,  with  paean  sung  and  anthem  rolled, 

Give  her  unspotted  to  the  God  of  Fire. 

Gather  around  her  sacred  ashes  then, 

Sprinkle  the  cherished  dust  with  crimson  rain, 

Die  !  as  becomes  a  race  of  free-born  men, 
Who  will  not  crouch  to  wear  the  bondman's  chain. 

So,  dying,  ye  shall  win  a  high  renown, 
If  not  in  life,  at  least  by  death,  set  free  ; 

And  send  her  fame  through  endless  ages  down — 
The  last  grand  holocaust  of  Liberty. 

JOHN  DICKSON  BRUNS. 


FLAG  OF  TRUCE. 

LET  us  bury  our  dead  : 

Since  we  may  not  of  vantage  or  victory  prate  ; 
And  our  army,  so  grand  in  the  onslaught  of  late, 
All  crippled  has  shrunk  to  its  trenches  instead, — 

For  the  carnage  was  great : 

Let  us  bury  our  dead. 

Let  us  bury  our  dead  : 
Oh,  we  thought  to  surprise  you,  as,  panting  and 

flushed, 

From  our  works  to  assault  you  we  valiantly  rushed  : 
But  you  fought  like  the  gods — till  we  faltered  and 
fled, 

And  the  earth,  how  it  blushed  ! 
Let  us  bury  our  dead. 

So  we  bury  our  dead — 
From  the  field ;  from  the  range  and  the  crash  of  the 

gun; 

From  the  kisses  of  love  ;  from  the  face  of  the  sun  ! 
Oh,  the  silence  they  keep  while  we  dig  their  last  bed  ! 

Lay  them  in,  one  by  one  : 

So  we  bury  our  dead. 

Fast  we  bury  our  dead  : 

All  too  scanty  the  time,  let  us  work  as  we  may, 
For  the  foe  burns  for  strife   and  our  ranks  are  at 

bay: 

O'er  the  graves  we  are  digging  what  legions  will 
tread — 

Swift,  and  eager  to  slay, 
Though  we  bury  our  dead. 

See,  we  bury  our  dead  ! 
Oh,  they  fought  as  the  young  and  the  dauntless  will 

fight, 
Who  fancy  their  war  is  a  war  for  the  right ! 


Right  or  wrong,  it  was  precious — this  blood  they 
have  shed  : 

Surely  God  will  requite, 
And  we  bury  our  dead. 

Yes,  we  bury  our  dead. 
If  they  erred  as  they  fought,  will   He  charge   them 

with  blame, 
When  their  hearts   beat  aright,  and   the  truth   was 

their  aim  ? 

Nay,  never  in  vain  has  such  offering  bled — 
North  or  South,  'tis  the  same — 
Fast  we  bury  our  dead. 

Thus  we  bury  our  dead. 
Oh,  ye   men  of  the  North,  with   your  banner  that 

waves 
Far  and  wide  o'er  our  Southland,  made  rugged  with 

graves, 

Are  ye  verily  right,  that  so  well  ye  have  sped  ? 
Were  we  wronging  our  slaves  ? 
Well — we  bury  our  dead. 

Ah,  we  bury  our  dead  ! 
And  granting  you   all   you   have   claimed   on   the 

whole — 
Are  we  'spoiled  of   our  birthright   and  stricken   in 

soul, 

To  be  spurned  at  Heaven's  court  when  its  records 
are  read  ? 

Nay,  expound  not  the  scroll 
Till  we  bury  our  dead  ! 

Haste  and  bury  our  dead  ! 
No  time  for  revolving  of  right  and  of  wrong ; 
We  must   venture  our  souls   with  the   rest  of  the 

throng ; 
And  our  God  must  be  Judge,  as  He  sits  overhead, 

Of  the  weak  and  the  strong, 

While  we  bury  our  dead. 


zrs 


Now  peace  to  our  dead  : 
Fair  grow  the  sweet  blossoms  of  Spring  where  they 

lie  .... 

Hark !  the  musketry  roars,  and  the  rifles  reply ; 
Oh,  the   fight   will   be   close  and  the   carnage   be 
dread ; 

To  the  ranks  let  us  hie, — 
We  have  buried  our  dead. 

AMANDA  T.  JONES. 


"  STACK  ARMS  !" 

[Written  in  prison  at  Fort  Delaware,   Del.,   on  hear* 
ing  of  the  surrender  of  General  Lee.] 

"  STACK  ARMS  !"  I've  gladly  heard  the  cry 

When,  weary  with  the  dusty  tread 
Of  marching  troops,  as  night  drew  nigh, 

I  sank  upon  my  soldier  bed, 
And  calmly  slept ;  the  starry  dome 

Of  heaven's  blue  arch  my  canopy, 
And  mingled  with  my  dreams  of  home 

The  thoughts  of  Peace  and  Liberty. 

"  Stack  Arms  /"  I've  heard  it  when  the  shout 

Exulting  ran  along  our  line, 
Of  foes  hurled  back  in  bloody  rout, 

Captured,  dispersed  ;  its  tones  divine 
Then  came  to  mine  enraptured  ear, 

Guerdon  of  duty  nobly  done, 
And  glistened  on  my  cheek  the  tear 

Of  grateful  joy  for  victory  won. 

"  Stack  Arms  /"    In  faltering  accents,  slow 
And  sad,  it  creeps  from  tongue  to  tongue, 

A  broken,  murmuring  wail  of  woe, 
From  manly  hearts  by  anguish  wrung. 


22T 


Like  victims  of  a  midnight  dream, 

We  move,  we  know  not  how  nor  why ; 

For  life  and  hope  like  phantoms  seem, 
And  it  would  be  relief — to  die  ! 

JOSEPH  BLYNTH  ALSTON. 


"ASHES  OF  GLORY." 

FOLD  up  the  gorgeous  silken  sun, 

By  bleeding  martyrs  blest, 
And  heap  the  laurels  it  has  won 

Above  its  place  of  rest. 

No  trumpet's  note  need  harshly  blare — 

No  drum  funereal  roll — 
Nor  trailing  sables  drape  the  bier 

That  frees  a  dauntless  soul. 

It  lived  with  Lee,  and  decked  his  brow 
From  Fate's  empyreal  palm  ; 

It  sleeps  the  sleep  of  Jackson  now, 
As  spotless  and  as  calm. 

It  was  outnumbered — not  outdone  ; 

And  they  shall  shuddering  tell, 
Who  struck  the  blow,  its  latest  gun 

Flashed  ruin  as  it  fell. 

Sleep,  shrouded  ensign  ! — not  the  breeze 

That  smote  the  victor  tar 
With  death,  across  the  heaving  seas 

Of  fiery  Trafalgar ; — 

Not  Arthur's  knights,  amid  the  gloom 
Their  knightly  deeds  have  starred, 

Nor  Gallic  Henry's  matchless  plume, 
Nor  peerless-born  Bayard  ; — 


are 


Not  all  that  antique  fables  feign 

And  Orient  dreams  disgorge, 
Nor  yet  the  silver  cross  of  Spain, 

And  lion  of  St.  George,  — 

Can  bid  thee  pale.     Proud  emblem,  still 

Thy  crimson  glory  shines 
Beyond  the  lengthened  shades  that  fill 

Their  proudest  kingly  lines. 

Sleep,  in  thine  own  historic  night,  — 

And  be  thy  blazoned  scroll  : 
A  warrior  s  banner  takes  its  flight 

To  greet  the  warrior's  soul  ! 

A.  J.  REQUIER. 


THE  CONQUERED  BANNER. 

[This  is  one  of  the  many  famous  poems  whose  authorship 
has  been  in  dispute.  Simms,  in  his  "  War  Poetry  of  the 
South"  credits  it  to  "Anna  Peyre  Dinnies,  of  Louisiana  ;" 
and  Long  fellow"  s  '•'•Poems  of  Places  "  gives  it  as  anonymous. 
But  Father  Ryan  is  unquestionably  the  author.  It  appears 
in  the  complete  edition  of  his  Poems  (Baltimore,  1883),  and 
he  has  written  the  editor  of  the  present  collection:  "/ 
wrote  '  The  Conquered  Banner'  at  Knoxville,  Tenn.,  one 
evening  soon  after  Lee's  surrender,  when  my  mind  was  en 
grossed  with  thoughts  of  our  dead  soldiers  and  dead  cause.  It 
was  first  published  in  the  New  York  '  freeman's  Journal? 
I  never  had  any  idea  that  the  poem,  written  in  less  than  an 
hour,  would  attain  celebrity.  No  doubt  the  circumstances 
of  its  appearance  lent  it  much  of  its  fame.  In  expressing 
my  own  emotions  at  the  time,  I  echoed  the  unuttered  feel 
ings  of  the  Southern  people  ;  and  so  '  The  Conquered  Ban 
ner*  became  the  requiem  of  the  Lost  Cause.1'] 

FURL  that  Banner,  for  'tis  weary, 
Round  its  staff  'tis  drooping  dreary : 

Furl  it,  fold  it, — it  is  best ; 
For  there's  not  a  man  to  wave  it, 
And  there's  not  a  sword  to  save  it, 
And  there's  not  one  left  to  lave  it 


ara 


In  the  blood  which  heroes  gave  it, 
And  its  foes  now  scorn  and  brave  it : 
Furl  it,  hide  it, — let  it  rest  ! 

Take  that  Banner  down  !  'tis  tattered ; 
Broken  is  its  staff  and  shattered, 
And  the  valiant  hosts  are  scattered 

Over  whom  it  floated  high  ; 
Oh,  'tis  hard  for  us  to  fold  it, 
Hard  to  think  there's  none  to  hold  it, 
Hard  that  those  who  once  unrolled  it 

Now  must  furl  it  with  a  sigh  ! 

Furl  that  Banner — furl  it  sadly  ; 
Once  ten  thousands*  hailed  it  gladly, 
And  ten  thousands  wildly,  madly, 

Swore  it  should  forever  wave — 
Swore  that  foemen's  swords  could  never 
Hearts  like  theirs  entwined  dissever, 
And  that  flag  should  float  forever 

O'er  their  freedom  or  their  grave  ! 

Furl  it ! — for  the  hands  that  grasped  it, 
And  the  hearts  that  fondly  clasped  it. 

Cold  and  dead  are  lying  low ; 
And  the  Banner — it  is  trailing, 
While  around  it  sounds  the  wailing 

Of  its  people  in  their  woe ; 
For  though  conquered,  they  adore  it — 
Love  the  cold  dead  hands  that  bore  it, 
Weep  for  those  who  fell  before  it, 
Pardon  those  who  trailed  and  tore  it ; 
And  oh,  wildly  they  deplore  it, 

Now  to  furl  and  fold  it  so ! 

Furl  that  Banner  !  True,  'tis  gory. 
Yet  'tis  wreathed  around  with  glory. 
And  'twill  live  in  song  and  story 

Though  its  folds  are  in  the  dust  J 


2B0 


For  its  fame  on  brightest  pages, 
Penned  by  poets  and  by  sages, 
Shall  go  sounding  down  the  ages  — 

Furl  its  folds  though  now  we  must  ! 

Furl  that  Banner,  softly,  slowly  ; 
Treat  it  gently  —  it  is  holy, 

For  it  droops  above  the  dead  ; 
Touch  it  not  —  unfold  it  never  ; 
Let  it  droop  there,  furled  forever,  — 

For  its  people's  hopes  are  fled. 

ABRAM  J.  RYAN. 


IN  THE  LAND  WHERE  WE  WERE  DREAMING. 

FAIR  were  our  visions  !  Oh,  they  were  as  grand 

As  ever  floated  out  of  faerie  land  ; 
Children  were  we  in  single  faith, 
But  God-like  children,  whom  nor  death 

Nor  threat  nor  danger  drove  from  honor's  path, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

Proud  were  our  men,  as  pride  of  birth  could  render, 
As  violets,  our  women  pure  and  tender ; 

And  when  they  spoke,  their  voice  did  thrill 

Until  at  eve  the  whip-poor-will, 
At  morn  the  mocking-bird,  were  mute  and  still, 

In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

And  we  had  graves  that  covered  more  of  glory 
Than  ever  tracked  tradition's  ancient  story  ; 

And  in  our  dream  we  wove  the  thread 

Of  principles  for  which  had  bled 
And  suffered  long  our  own  immortal  dead, 

In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

Though  in  our  land  we  had  both  bond  and  free, 
Both  were  content ;  and  so  God  let  them  be ;— 


201 


'Till  envy  coveted  our  land, 
And  those  fair  fields  our  valor  won ; 
But  little  recked  we,  for  we  still  slept  on, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

Our   sleep  grew  troubled   and   our   dreams   grew 

wild — 
Red  meteors  flashed  across  our  heaven's  field  ; 

Crimson  the  moon  ;  between  the  Twins 

Barbed  arrows  fly,  and  then  begins 
Such  strife  as  when  disorder's  Chaos  reigns, 

In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

Down  from  her  sun-lit  heights  smiled  Liberty 
And  waved  her  cap  in  sign  of  Victory — 
The  world  approved,  "and  everywhere, 
Except  where  growled  the  Russian  bear, 
The  good,  the  brave,  the  just  gave  us  their  prayer 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

We  fancied  that  a  Government  was  ours — 
We   challenged   place    among    the   world's  great 
powers ; 

We  talked  in  sleep  of  Rank,  Commission, 

Until  so  life-like  grew  our  vision 
That  he  who  dared  to  doubt  but  met  derision, 

In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

We  looked  on  high  :  a  banner  there  was  seen, 
Whose  field  was  blanched  and  spotless  in  its  sheen — 
Chivalry's  cross  its  Union  bears, 
And  veterans  swearing  by  their  scars 
Vowed  they  would  bear  it  through  a  hundred  wars, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

A  hero  came  amongst  us  as  we  slept ; 

At  first  he  lowly  knelt — then  rose  and  wept ; 

Then  gathering  up  a  thousand  spears 

He  swept  across  the  field  of  Mars ; 
Then  bowed  farewell  and  walked  beyond  the  stars. 

In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 


2B2 


We  looked  again  :  another  figure  still 
Gave  hope,  and  nerved  each  individual  will — 
Full  of  grandeur,  clothed  with  power, 
Self-poised,  erect,  he  ruled  the  hour 
With  stern,  majestic  sway — of  strength  a  tower, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

As,  while  great  Jove,  in  bronze,  a  warder  God, 
Gazed  eastward  from  the  Forum  where  he  stood, 
Rome  felt  herself  secure  and  free, 
So,  "  Richmond's  safe,"  we  said,  while  we 
Beheld  a  bronzed  hero — God-like  Lee, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

As  wakes  the  soldier  when  the  alarum  calls — 
As  wakes  the  mother  when  the  infant  falls — 
As  starts  the  traveller  when  around 
His  sleeping  couch  the  fire-bells  sound — 
So  woke  our  nation  with  a  single  bound, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

Woe  !  woe  is  me  !  the  startled  mother  cried — 
While  we  have  slept  our  noble  sons  have  died ! 

Woe  !  woe  is  me  !  how  strange  and  sad 

That  all  our  glorious  vision's  fled, 
And  left  us  nothing  real  but  the  dead, 

In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

DANIEL  B.  LUCAS. 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN. 

A    HORATIAN    ODE. 

NOT  as  when  some  great  Captain  falls 
In  battle,  where  his  country  calls, 
Beyond  the  struggling  lines 
That  push  his  dread  designs 


2B3 


To  doom,  by  some  stray  ball  struck  dead 
Or,  in  the  last  charge,  at  the  head 

Of  his  determined  men, 

Who  must  be  victors  then. 

Nor  as  when  sink  the  civic  great, 

The  safer  pillars  of  the  State, 
Whose  calm,  mature,  wise  words 
Suppress  the  need  of  swords. 

With  no  such  tears  as  e'er  were  shed 
Above  the  noblest  of  our  dead 

Do  we  to-day  deplore 

The  Man  that  is  no  more. 

Our  sorrow  hath  a  wider  scope, 
Too  strange  for  fear,  too  vast  for  hope, 
A  wonder,  blind  and  dumb, 
That  waits — what  is  to  come  ! 

Not  more  astounded  had  we  been 
If  Madness,  that  dark  night,  unseen, 
Had  in  our  chambers  crept, 
And  murdered  while  we  slept. 

We  woke  to  find  a  mourning  earth, 
Our  Lares  shivered  on  the  hearth, 

The  roof-tree  fallen,  all 

That  could  affright,  appall ! 

Such  thunderbolts,  in  other  lands, 
Have  smitten  the  rod  from  royal  hands, 
But  spared,  with  us,  till  now, 
Each  laurelled  Caesar's  brow. 

No  Caesar  he  whom  we  lament, 
A  Man  without  a  precedent, 

Sent,  it  would  seem,  to  do 

His  work,  and  perish,  too. 


2B4 


Not  by  the  weary  cares  of  State, 

The  endless  tasks,  which  will  not  wait, 

Which,  often  done  in  vain, 

Must  yet  be  done  again  : 

Not  in  the  dark,  wild  tide  of  war, 
Which  rose  so  high,  and  rolled  so  far, 

Sweeping  from  sea  to  sea 

In  awful  anarchy : 

Four  fateful  years  of  mortal  strife, 
Which  slowly  drained  the  nation's  life, 
(Yet  for  each  drop  that  ran 
There  sprang  an  armfed  man  !) 

Not  then  ;  but  when,  by  measures  meet, 

By  victory,  and  by  defeat, 
By  courage,  patience,  skill, 
The  people's  fixed  "  We  will!" 

Had  pierced,  had  crushed  Rebellion  dead, 
Without  a  hand,  without  a  head, 

At  last,  when  all  was  well, 

He  fell,  O  how  he  fell ! 

The  time,  the  place,  the  stealing  shape, 
The  coward  shot,  the  swift  escape, 

The  wife,  the  widow's  scream, — 

It  is  a  hideous  Dream  ! 

A  dream  ?  What  means  this  pageant,  then  ? 
These  multitudes  of  solemn  men, 

Who  speak  not  when  they  meet, 

But  throng  the  silent  street  ? 

The  flags  half-mast  that  late  so  high 
Flaunted  at  each  new  victory  ? 

(The  stars  no  brightness  shed, 

But  bloody  looks  the  red  !) 


205 


The  black  festoons  that  stretch  for  miles. 
And  turn  the  streets  to  funeral  aisles  ? 

(No  house  too  poor  to  show 

The  nation's  badge  of  woe.) 

The  cannon's  sudden,  sullen  boom, 
The  bells  that  toll  of  death  and  doom, 
The  rolling  of  the  drums, 
The  dreadful  car  that  comes  ? 


Peace  !     Let  the  long  procession  come ; 
For  hark,  the  mournful  muffled  drum, 

The  trumpet's  wail  afar, 

And  see,  the  awful  car ! 

Peace !     Let  the  sad  procession  go, 
While  cannon  boom  and  bells  toll  slow. 

And  go,  thou  sacred  car, 

Bearing  our  woe  afar  ! 

Go,  darkly  borne,  from  State  to  State, 
Whose  loyal,  sorrowing  cities  wait 

To  honor  all  they  can 

The  dust  of  that  good  man. 

Go,  grandly  borne,  with  such  a  train 
As  greatest  kings  might  die  to  gain. 

The  just,  the  wise,  the  brave, 

Attend  thee  to  the  grave. 

And  you,  the  soldiers  of  our  wars, 
Bronzed  veterans,  grim  with  noble  scars, 
Salute  him  once  again, 
Your  late  commander — slain  ! 

Yes,  let  your  tears  indignant  fall, 
But  leave  your  muskets  on  the  wall ; 
Your  country  needs  you  now 
Beside  the  forge — the  plough. 


2BB 


(When  Justice  shall  unsheathe  her  brand, 
If  Mercy  may  not  stay  her  hand, 

Nor  would  we  have  it  so, 

She  must  direct  the  blow.) 

And  you,  amid  the  master-race, 
Who  seem  so  strangely  out  of  place, 

Know  ye  who  cometh  ?     He 

Who  hath  declared  ye  free. 

Bow  while  the  body  passes — nay, 

Fall  on  your  knees,  and  weep,  and  pray  ! 

Weep,  weep — I  would  ye  might — 

Your  poor  black  faces  white  ! 

And,  children,  you  must  come  in  bands, 
With  garlands  in  your  little  hands, 

Of  blue  and  white  and  red, 

To  strew  before  the  dead. 

So  sweetly,  sadly,  sternly  goes 
The  Fallen  to  his  last  repose. 

Beneath  no  mighty  dome, 

But  in  his  modest  home  ; 

The  churchyard  where  his  children  rest, 
The  quiet  spot  that  suits  him  best, 

There  shall  his  grave  be  made, 

And  there  his  bones  be  laid. 

And  there  his  countrymen  shall  come, 
With  memory  proud,  with  pity  dumb, 

And  strangers  far  and  near, 

For  many  and  many  a  year. 

For  many  a  year  and  many  an  age, 
While  History  on  her  ample  page 

The  virtues  shall  enroll 

Of  that  Paternal  Soul. 

RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD. 


WHEN  LILACS  LAST    IN  THE   DOORYARD 
BLOOM'D. 

["  I  think  this  poem  and  'LowelTs  Commemoration  Ode,1 
each  in  its  own  way,  the  most  notable  elegies  resulting  from 
the  war  and  its  episodes." — E.  C.  Stedman.} 

WHEN  lilacs  last  in  the  dooryard  bloom'd, 

And  the  great  star  early  droop'd  in  the  western  sky 

in  the  night, 
I  mourn'd,  and  yet  shall  mourn  with  ever-returning 

spring. 

Ever-returning  spring,  trinity  sure  to  me  you  bring, 
Lilac  blooming  perennial  and  drooping  star  in  the 

west, 
And  thought  of  him  I  love. 

O  powerful  western  fallen  star ! 

O  shades  of  night — O  moody,  tearful  night ! 

O  great  star  disappear'd — O  the  black  murk  that 

hides  the  star ! 
O  cruel  hands  that  hold  me  powerless — O  helpless 

soul  of  me ! 
O  harsh  surrounding  cloud  that  will  not  free  my 

soul. 

In  the  door-yard  fronting  an  old  farm-house  near 

the  white-wash'd  palings, 
Stands  the  lilac-bush  tall-growing  with  heart-shap'd 

leaves  of  rich  green, 
With  many  a  pointed  blossom  rising  delicate,  with 

the  perfume  strong  I  love, 
With  every  leaf  a  miracle — and  from  this  bush  in  the 

door-yard, 
With   delicate-color'd   blossoms  and   heart-shaped 

leaves  of  rich  green, 
A  sprig  with  its  flower  I  break. 

In  the  swamp  in  seclud'd  recesses 

A  shy  and  hidden  bird  is  warbling  a  song. 


2BB 


Solitary  the  thrush, 

The  hermit  withdrawn  to  himself,  avoiding  the  set. 

tlements, 
Sings  by  himself  a  song. 

Song  of  the  bleeding  throat, 

Death's  outlet  song  of  life,  (for  well,  dear  brother,  I 

know 
If  thou  wast  not  granted  to  sing  thou  would'st  surely 

die.) 

Over  the  breast  of  the  spring,  the  land,  amid  cities, 
Amid  lanes,  and  through  old  woods,  where  lately  the 

violets  peep'd  from  the  ground,  spotting  the  gray 

debris, 
Amid  the  grass  in  the  fields  each  side  of  the  lanes, 

passing  the  endless  grass, 
Passing  the  yellow-spear  'd  wheat,  every  grain  from 

its  shroud  in  the  dark-brown  fields  uprisen, 
Passing  the  apple-tree  blows  of  white  and  pink  in 

the  orchards, 

Carrying  a  corpse  to  where  it  shall  rest  in  the  grave, 
Night  and  day  journeys  a  coffin. 

Coffin  that  passes  through  lanes  and  streets, 
Through  day  and  night  with  the  great  cloud  dark 

ening  the  land, 
With  the  pomp  of  the  inloop'd  flags,  with  the  cities 

draped  in  black, 
With  the  show  of  the  States  themselves  as  of  crape- 

veil'd  women  standing, 
With  processions  long   and  winding  and  the  flam 

beaus  of  the  night, 
With  the  countless  torches  lit,  with  the  silent  sea  of 

faces  and  the  unbared  heads, 
With  the  waiting  depot,  the  arriving  coffin  and  the 

sombre  faces, 
With  dirges  through  the  night,  with  the  thousand 

voices  rising  strong  and  solemn, 


With  all  the  mournful  voices  of  the  dirges  pour'd 

around  the  coffin, 
The  dim-lit  churches  and  the  shuddering  organs — 

where  amid  these  you  journey, 
With  the  tolling,  tolling  bells'  perpetual  clang. 
Here,  coffin  that  slowly  passes, 
I  give  you  my  sprig  of  lilac. 

****** 

0  how  shall  I  warble  myself  for  the  dead  one  there 

I  loved  ? 
And  how  shall  I  deck  my  song  for  the  large  sweet 

soul  that  has  gone  ? 

And  what  shall  my  perfume  be  for  the  grave  of  him 
"  I  love  ? 

Sea-winds  blown  from  east  and  west, 

Blown  from  the  Eastern  sea  and  blown  from  the 

Western  sea,  till  there  on  the  prairies  meeting, 
These  and  with  these  and  the  breath  of  my  chant 
I'll  perfume  the  grave  of  him  I  love. 

****** 

To  the  tally  of  my  soul, 

Loud  and  strong  kept  up  the  gray-brown  bird, 
With   pure  deliberate   notes   spreading  filling  the 
night. 

Loud  in  the  pines  and  cedars  dim, 
Clear  in   the  freshness  moist   and  the   swamp  per 
fume, 
And  I  with  my  comrades  there  in  the  night. 

While  my  sight  that  was  bound  in  my  eyes  unclos'd, 
As  to  long  panoramas  of  visions. 

And  I  saw  askant  the  armies, 

1  saw  as   in  noiseless  dreams   hundreds  of   battle- 

flags, 

Borne  through  the  smoke  of  the  battles  and  pierc'd 
with  missiles  I  saw  them, 


290 


And  carried  hither  and  yon  through  the  smoke,  and 

torn  and  bloody, 
And  at  last  but  a  few  shreds  left  on  the  staffs,  (and 

all  in  silence,) 
And  the  staffs  all  splinter'd  and  broken. 

I  saw  battle-corpses,  myriads  of  them, 

And  the  white  skeletons  of  young  men,  I  saw  them, 

I  saw  the  debris  and  debris  of  all  the  slain  soldiers 

of  the  war, 

But  I  saw  they  were  not  as  was  thought, 
They  themselves  were  fully  at  rest,  they  suffer'd  not, 
The  living  remain  'd  and  suffer'd,  the  mother  suffer'd, 
And  the  wife  and  the  child  and  the  musing  comrade 

suffer'd, 
And  the  armies  that  remained  suffer'd. 

Passing  the  visions,  passing  the  night, 

Passing,  unloosing  the  hold  of  my  comrades'  hands, 

Passing  the  song  of  the  hermit  bird  and  the  tallying 

song  of  my  soul, 
Victorious  song,   death's  outlet  song,  yet  varying 

ever-altering  song, 
As  low  and  wailing,  yet  clear  the  notes,  rising  and 

falling,  flooding  the  night, 
Sadly  sinking  and  fainting,  as  warning  and  warn 

ing,  and  yet  again  bursting  with  joy, 
Covering  the  earth   and  filling  the  spread  of  the 

heaven, 
As  that  powerful   psalm  in  the  night  I  heard   from 

recesses, 

Passing,  I  leave  thee  lilac  with  heart-shap'd  leaves, 
I  leave  thee  there  in  the  door-yard,  blooming,  re 

turning  with  spring. 

I  cease  from  my  song  for  thee, 

From  my  gaze   on   thee   in  the  west,  fronting  the 

west,  communing  with  thee, 
O  comrade  lustrous  with  silver  face  in  the  night. 


Yet  each  to  keep  and  all,  retrievements  out  of   the 

night, 
The  song,  the  wondrous  chant  of  the  gray-brown 

bird, 

And  the  tallying-chant,  the  echo  arous'd  in  my  soul, 
With   the   lustrous   and    drooping   star    with   the 

countenance  full  of  woe, 
With  the  holders  holding  my  hand  nearing  the  call 

of  the  bird, 
Comrades  mine  and  I  in  the  midst,  and  their  memory 

ever  to  keep,  for  the  dead  I  loved  so  well, 
For  the   sweetest,  wisest  soul  of   all   my  days   and 

laitds — and  this  for  his  dear  sake, 
Lilac  and  star  and  bird  twined  with  the  chant  of  my 

soul, 
There  in  the  fragrant  pines  and  the  cedars  dusk  and 

dim. 

WALT  WHITMAN. 


O  CAPTAIN  !  MY  CAPTAIN  ! 

[Abraham  Lincoln,  died  April  15,  1865.] 

O  CAPTAIN  !  my  Captain  !  our  fearful  trip  is  done  ; 
The  ship  has  weather'd  every  rack,  the  prize  we 

sought  is  won ; 
The  port  is  near,  the  bells  I  hear,  the  people  all 

exulting, 

While  follow  eyes  the  steady  keel,  the  vessel  grim 
and  daring : 

But  O  heart  !  heart  !  heart  ! 
O  the  bleeding  drops  of  red, 

Where  on  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead  ! 

O  Captain  !  my  Captain  !  rise  up  and  hear  the  bells ; 
Rise  up — for  you   the   flag  is  flung — for  you  the 
bugle  trills ; 


292 


For  you  bouquets  and  ribbon'd  wreaths  —  for  you 

the  shores  a-crowding  ; 

For  you  they  call,  the  swaying  mass,  their  eager 
faces  turning  ; 

Here  Captain  !  dear  father  ! 
This  arm  beneath  your  head  ; 

It  is  some  dream  that  on  the  deck 
You've  fallen  cold  and  dead. 

My  Captain  does  not  answer,  his  lips  are  pale  and 

still  ; 
My  father  does  not  feel  my  arm,  he  has  no  pulse 

nor  will  : 
The  ship  is  anchor  'd   safe  and  sound,  its  voyage 

closed  and  done  ; 

From  fearful  trip  the  victor  ship  comes  in  with  ob 
ject  won  : 

Exult,  O  shores,  and  ring,  O  bells  ! 
But  I,  with  mournful  tread, 
Walk  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

WALT  WHITMAN. 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN. 
[Summer,  1865.] 

DEAD  is  the  roll  of  the  drums, 
And  the  distant  thunders  die, 
They  fade  in  the  far-off  sky ; 

And  a  lovely  summer  comes, 
Like  the  smile  of  Him  on  high. 

Lulled  the  storm  and  the  onset ; 

Earth  lies  in  a  sunny  swoon  ; 

Stiller  splendor  of  noon, 
Softer  glory  of  sunset, 

Milder  starlight  and  moon ! 


293 


For  the  kindly  Seasons  love  us ; 

They  smile  over  trench  and  clod, 
(Where  we  left  the  bravest  of  us,) — 

There's  a  brighter  green  of  the  sod. 
And  a  holier  calm  above  us 

In  the  blessed  Blue  of  God. 

The  roar  and  ravage  were  vain  ; 

And  Nature,  that  never  yields, 
Is  busy  with  sun  and  rain 
At  her  old  sweet  work  again 

On'the  lonely  battle-fields. 

How  the  tall  white  daisies  grow 
Where  the  grim  artillery  rolled ! 

(Was  it  only  a  moon  ago  ? 
It  seems  a  century  old,) — 

And  the  bee  hums  in  the  clover, 
As  the  pleasant  June  comes  on  ; 

Aye,  the  wars  are  all  over, — 
But  our  good  Father  is  gone. 

There  was  tumbling  of  traitor  fort, 
Flaming  of  traitor  fleet, — 

Lighting  of  city  and  port, 

Clasping  in  square  and  street. 

There  was  thunder  of  mine  and  gun, 

Cheering  by  mast  and  tent, — 
When — his  dread  work  all  done, 
And  his  high  fame  full  won — 
Died  the  good  President. 

In  his  quiet  chair  he  sate, 

Pure  of  malice  or  guile, 
Stainless  of  fear  or  hate, — 

And  there  played  a  pleasant  smile 
On  the  rough  and  careworn  face ; 

For  his  heart  was  all  the  while 
On  means  of  mercy  and  grace. 


294 


The  brave  old  Flag  drooped  o'er  him, 
(A  fold  in  the  hard  hand  lay,) — 
He  looked,  perchance,  on  the  play, — 

But  the  scene  was  a  shadow  before  him, 
For  his  thoughts  were  far  away. 

'Twas  but  the  morn  ,  (yon  fearful 

Death-shade,  gloomy  and  vast, 

Lifting  slowly  at  last,) 

His  household  heard  him  say, 
"  Tis  long  since  I've  been  so  cheerful, 

So  light  of  heart  as  to-day." 

'Twas  dying,  the  long  dread  clang, — 

But,  or  ever  the  blessed  ray 

Of  peace  could  brighten  to-day, 

Murder  stood  by  the  way, — 
Treason  struck  home  his  fang ! 
One  throb — and,  without  a  pang, 

That  pure  soul  passed  away. 
*  *  *  * 

Kindly  Spirit  !  —  Ah,  when  did  treason 
Bid  such  a  generous  nature  cease, 

Mild  by  temper  and  strong  by  reason, 
But  ever  leaning  to  love  and  peace  ? 

A  head  how  sober  !  a  heart  how  spacious! 

A  manner  equal  with  high  or  low ; 
Rough,  but  gentle  ;  uncouth,  but  gracious ; 

And  still  inclining  to  lips  of  woe. 

Patient  when  saddest,  calm  when  sternest, 
Grieved  when  rigid  for  justice'  sake  ; 

Given  to  jest,  yet  ever  in  earnest, 

If  aught  of  right  or  truth  were  at  stake. 

Simple  of  heart,  yet  shrewd  therewith ; 

Slow  to  resolve,  but  firm  to  hold ; 
Still  with  parable  and  with  myth 

Seasoning  truth,  like  Them  of  old ; 


295 


Aptest  humor  and  quaintest  pith  ! 
(Still  we  smile  o'er  the  tales  he  told.) 

Yet  whoso  might  pierce  the  guise 
Of  mirth  in  the  man  we  mourn 

Would  mark,  and  with  grieved  surprise, 
All  the  great  soul  had  borne, 

In  the  piteous  lines,  and  the  kind,  sad  eyes 
So  dreadfully  wearied  and  worn. 


The  Land's  great  lamentations, 
The  mighty  mourning  of  cannon, 
The  myriad  flags  half-mast, — 
The  late  remorse  of  the  nations, 
Grief  from  Volga  to  Shannon  ! 
(Now  they  know  thee  at  last.) 

How,  from  gray  Niagara's  shore 
To  Canaveral's  surfy  shoal, — 

From  the  rough  Atlantic  roar 
To  the  long  Pacific  roll, — 
For  bereavement  and  for  dole, 

Every  cottage  wears  its  weed, 
White  as  thine  own  pure  soul, 

And  black  as  the  traitor  deed  ! 

How,  under  a  nation's  pall, 
The  dust  so  dear  in  our  sight 

To  its  home  on  the  prairie  passed,- 
The  leagues  of  funeral, 

The  myriads,  morn  and  night, 
Pressing  to  look  their  last ! 

Nor  alone  the  State's  Eclipse; 

But  how  tears  in  hard  eyes  gather, — 
And  on  rough  and  bearded  lips, 
Of  the  regiments  and  the  ships, — 

"  Oh,  our  dear  Father  !" 


296 


And  methinks  of  all  the  million 

That  looked  on  the  dark  dead  face, 
'Neath  its  sable-plumed  pavilion, 

The  crone  of  a  humbler  race 
Is  saddest  of  all  to  think  on, 

And  the  old  swart  lips  that  said, 
Sobbing,  "  Abraham  Lincoln  ! 

Oh,  he  is  dead,  he  is  dead !" 

Hush  !  let  our  heavy  souls 

To-day  be  glad  ;  for  agen 
The  stormy  music  swells  and  rolls 

Stirring  the  hearts  of  men. 

And  under  the  Nation's  Dome, 
They've  guarded  so  well  and  long, 

Our  boys  come  marching  home, 
Two  hundred  thousand  strong. 

All  in  the  pleasant  month  of  May, 
With  war-worn  colors  and  drums, 

Still,  through  the  livelong  summer's  day. 
Regiment,  regiment  comes. 

Like  the  tide,  yesty  and  barmy, 
That  sets  on  a  wild  lee-shore, 

Surge  the  ranks  of  an  army 
Never  reviewed  before  ! 

Who  shall  look  on  the  like  agen, 
Or  see  such  host  of  the  brave  ? 
A  mighty  River  of  marching  men 

Rolls  the  Capital  through — 
Rank  on  rank,  and  wave  on  wave, 
Of  bayonet-crested  blue  ! 

How  the  chargers  neigh  and  champ, 
(Their  riders  weary  of  camp,) 

With  curvet  and  with  caracole  ! — 
The  cavalry  comes  with  thundrous  tramp. 

And  the  cannons  heavily  roll. 


zsz 


And  ever,  flowery  and  gay, 
The  Staff  sweeps  on  in  a  spray 

Of  tossing  forelocks  and  manes  ; 
But  each  bridle-arm  has  a  weed 
Of  funeral,  black  as  the  steed 

That  fiery  Sheridan  reins. 

Grandest  of  mortal  sights 

The  sun-browned  ranks  to  view, — 
The  Colors  ragg'd  in  a  hundred  fights, 

And  the  dusty  Frocks  of  Blue  ! 

And  all  day,  mile  on  mile, 

With  cheer,  and  waving,  and  smile, 

The  war-worn  legions  defile 

Where  the  nation's  noblest  stand  ; 
And  the  Great  Lieutenant  looks  on, 

With  the  Flower  of  a  rescued  Land, 
For  the  terrible  work  is  done, 
And  the  Good  Fight  is  won 

For  God  and  for  Fatherland. 

So,  from  the  fields  they  win, 
Our  men  are  marching  home, 
A  million  are  marching  home  ! 

To  the  cannon's  thundering  din, 
And  banners  on  mast  and  dome, — 

And  the  ships  come  sailing  in 
With  all  their  ensigns  dight, 
As  erst  for  a  great  sea-fight. 

Let  every  color  fly, 

Every  pennon  flaunt  in  pride ; 
Wave,  Starry  Flag,  on  high  ! 
Float  in  the  sunny  sky, 

Stream  o'er  the  stormy  tide ! 
For  every  stripe  of  stainless  hue, 
And  every  star  in  the  field  of  blue, 
Ten  thousand  of  the  brave  and  true 

Have  laid  them  down  and  died. 


290 


And  in  all  our  pride  to-day 
We  think,  with  a  tender  pain, 

Of  those  so  far  away, 

They  will  not  come  home  again. 

And  our  boys  had  fondly  thought, 

To-day,  in  marching  by, 
From  the  ground  so  dearly  bought, 
And  the  fields  so  bravely  fought, 

To  have  met  their  Father's  eye. 

But  they  may  not  see  him  in  place, 
Nor  their  ranks  be  seen  of  him  ; 

We  look  for  the  well-known  face. 
And  the  splendor  is  strangely  dim. 

Perished  ? — who  was  it  said 
Our  Leader  had  passed  away? 

Dead  ?     Our  President  dead  ? — 
He  has  not  died  for  a  day ! 

We  mourn  for  a  little  breath, 

Such  as,  late  or  soon,  dust  yields ; 

But  the  Dark  Flower  of  Death 
Blooms  in  the  fadeless  fields. 

We  looked  on  a  cold,  still  brow  : 
But  Lincoln  could  yet  survive  ; 
He  never  was  more  alive, 

Never  nearer  than  now. 

For  the  pleasant  season  found  him, 
Guarded  by  faithful  hands, 
In  the  fairest  of  Summer  Lands : 

With  his  own  brave  Staff  around  him, — 
There  our  President  stands. 

There  they  are  all  at  his  side, 
The  noble  hearts  and  true, 
That  did  all  men  might  do, — 

Then  slept,  with  their  swords,  and  died. 


293 


Of  little  the  storm  has  reft  us 
But  the  brave  and  kindly  clay, 

(Tis  but  dust  where  Lander  left  us, 
And  but  turf  where  Lyon  lay.) 

There's  Winthrop,  true  to  the  end, 
And  Ellsworth  of  long  ago, 
(First  fair  young  head  laid  low !) 

There's  Baker,  the  brave  old  friend, 
And  Douglas,  the  friendly  foe  : 

(Baker,  that  still  stood  up 

When  'twas  death  on  either  hand  : 
"  'Tis  a  soldier's  part  to  stoop, 

But  the  Senator  must  stand.") 

The  heroes  gather  and  form  : — 
There's  Cameron,  with  his  scars, 

Sedgwick,  of  siege  and  storm, 

And  Mitchell,  that  joined  his  stars. 

Winthrop,  of  sword  and  pen, 
Wadsworth,  with  silver  hair, 

Mansfield,  ruler  of  men, 

And  brave  McPherson  are  there. 

Birney,  who  led  so  long, 
Abbott,  born  to  command, 

Elliott  the  bold,  and  Strong, 

Who  fell  on  the  hard-fought  strand. 

Lytle,  soldier  and  bard, 

And  the  Ellets,  sire  and  son, 
Ransom,  all  grandly  scarred, 
And  Redfield,  no  more  on  guard, 
(But  Alatoona  is  won  !) 

Reno,  of  pure  desert, 

Kearney,  with  heart  of  flame, 
And  Russell,  that  hid  his  hurt 

Till  the  final  death-bolt  came. 


ann 


Terrill,  dead  where  he  fought, 
Wallace,  that  would  not  yield, 

And  Sumner,  who  vainly  sought 
A  grave  on  the  foughten  field, 

(But  died  ere  the  end  he  saw, 
With  years  and  battles  outworn.) 

There's  Harmon  of  Kenesaw, 

And  Ulric  Dahlgren,  and  Shaw, 
That  slept  with  his  Hope  Forlorn. 

Bayard,  that  knew  not  fear, 

(True  as  the  knight  of  yore,) 
And  Putnam,  and  Paul  Revere, 

Worthy  the  names  they  bore. 

Allen,  who  died  for  others, 

Bryan,  of  gentle  fame, 
And  the  brave  New-England  brothers 

That  have  left  us  Lowell's  name. 

Home,  at  last,  from  the  wars, — 
Stedman,  the  staunch  and  mild, 
And  Janeway,  our  hero-child, 

Home,  with  his  fifteen  scars  ! 

There's  Porter,  ever  in  front, 

True  son  of  a  sea-king  sire, 
And  Christian  Foote,  and  Dupont, 
fDupont,  who  led  his  ships 
Rounding  the  first  Ellipse 

Of  thunder  and  of  fire.) 

There's  Ward,  with  his  brave  death-wounds, 
And  Cummings,  of  spotless  name, 

And  Smith,  who  hurtled  his  rounds 
When  deck  and  hatch  were  aflame ; 

Wainwright,  steadfast  and  true, 
Rodgers,  of  brave  sea-blood. 


And  Craven,  with  ship  and  crew 
Sunk  in  the  salt  sea  flood. 

And,  a  little  later  to  part, 

Our  Captain,  noble  and  dear — 
(Did  they  deem  thee,  then,  austere? 

Drayton  ! — O  pure  and  kindly  heart ! 
Thine  is  the  seaman's  tear.) 

All  such, — and  many  another, 
(Ah,  list  how  long  to  name !) 

That  stood  like  brother  by  brother, 
And  died  on  the  field  of  fame. 

And  around — (for  there  can  cease 
This  earthly  trouble  ) — they  throng, 

The  friends  that  had  passed  in  peace, 
The  foes  that  have  seen  their  wrong. 

(But,  a  little  from  the  rest, 
With  sad  eyes  looking  down, 
And  brows  of  softened  frown. 
With  stern  arms  on  the  chest, 
Are  two,  standing  abreast, — 
Stonewall  and  Old  John  Brown.) 

But  the  stainless  and  the  true, 
These  by  their  President  stand, 

To  look  on  his  last  review, 

Or  march  with  the  old  command. 

And  lo,  from  a  thousand  fields, 
From  all  the  old  battle-haunts, 

A  greater  Army  than  Sherman  wields, 
A  grander  Review  than  Grant's ! 

Gathered  home  from  the  grave, 
Risen  from  sun  and  rain, — 

Rescued  from  wind  and  wave, 
Out  of  the  stormy  main, — 


The  Legions  of  our  Brave 
Are  all  in  their  lines  again  ! 

Many  a  stout  Corps  that  went, 
Full-ranked,  from  camp  and  tent, 

And  brought  back  a  brigade  ; 
Many  a  brave  regiment, 

That  mustered  only  a  squad. 

The  lost  battalions, 

That,  when  the  tight  went  wrong, 
Stood  and  died  at  their  guns, — 

The  stormers  steady  and  strong, 

With  their  best  blood  that  bought 
Scarp,  and  ravelin,  and  wall — 

The  companies  that  fought 
Till  a  corporal's  guard  was  all. 

Many  a  valiant  crew, 

That  passed  in  battle  and  wreck, — 
Ah,  so  faithful  and  true  ! 

They  died  on  the  bloody  deck, 
They  sank  in  the  soundless  blue. 

All  the  loyal  and  bold 

That  lay  on  a  soldier's  bier, — 
The  stretchers  borne  to  the  rear, 

The  hammocks  lowered  to  the  hold. 

The  shattered  wreck  we  hurried, 
In  death-fight,  from  deck  and  port, 

The  Blacks  that  Wagner  buried, 
That  died  in  the  Bloody  Fort ! 

Comrades  of  camp  and  mess, 

Left,  as  they  lay,  to  die, 
In  the  battle's  sorest  stress, 

When  the  storm  of  fight  swept  by : 
They  lay  in  the  Wilderness — 

An,  where  did  they  not  lie  ? 


ana 


In  the  tangled  swamp  they  lay, 

They  lay  so  still  on  the  sward  ! — 
They  rolled.in  the  sick-bay, 
Moaning-  their  lives  away  ; — 
They  flushed  in  the  fevered  ward. 

They  rotted  in  Libby  yonder, 

They  starved  in  the  foul  stockade,— 

Hearing  afar  the  thunder 
Of  the  Union  cannonade  ! 

But  the  old  wounds  all  are  healed, 
And  the  dungeoned  limbs  are  free,- 

The  Blue  Frocks  rise  from  the  field, 
The  Blue  Jackets  out  of  the  sea. 

They've  'scaped  from  the  torture-den, 
They've  broken  the  bloody  sod, 

They're  all  come  to  life  agen  ! — 

The  Third  of  a  Million  men 

That  died  for  Thee  and  for  God  ! 

A  tenderer  green  than  May 
The  Eternal  Season  wears, — 

The  blue  of  our  summer's  day 
Is  dim  and  pallid  to  theirs, — 

The  Horror  faded  away, 

And  'twas  heaven  all  unawares  1 

Tents  on  the  Infinite  Shore  ! 

Flags  in  the  azuline  sky, 
Sails  on  the  seas  once  more ! 

To-day,  in  the  heaven  on  high, 
All  under  arms  once  more  ! 

The  troops  are  all  in  their  lines, 
The  guidons  flutter  and  play : 

But  every  bayonet  shines, 
For  all  must  march  to-day. 


3D4 


What  lofty  pennons  flaunt  ? 
What  mighty  echoes  haunt, 

As  of  great  guns,  o'er  the  main? 

Hark  to  the  sound  again  ! 
The  Congress  is  all-ataunt ! 

The  Cumberland's  manned  again ! 

All  the  ships  and  their  men 
Are  in  line  of  battle  to-day, — 

All  at  quarters,  as  when 

Their  last  roll  thundered  away,— 

All  at  their  guns,  as  then, 
For  the  Fleet  salutes  to-day. 

The  armies  have  broken  camp 
On  the  vast  and  sunny  plain, 
The  drums  are  rolling  again ; 

With  steady,  measured  tramp, 
They're  marching  all  again. 

With  alignment  firm  and  solemn, 

Once  again  they  form 
In  mighty  square  and  column, — 

But  never  for  charge  and  storm. 

The  Old  Flag  they  died  under 
Floats  above  them  on  the  shore, 

And  on  the  great  ships  yonder 
The  ensigns  dip  once  more, — 

And  once  again  the  thunder 
Of  the  thirty  guns  and  four  ! 

In  solid  platoons  of  steel, 

Under  heaven's  triumphal  arch, 

The  long  lines  break  and  wheel ; 
And  the  word  is,  "  Forward,  march 

The  colors  ripple  o'erhead, 
The  drums  roll  up  to  the  sky, 


305 


And  with  martial  time  and  tread 

The  regiments  all  pass  by,  — 
The  Ranks  of  our  faithful  Dead, 

Meeting  their  President's  eye. 

With  a  soldier's  quiet  pride 

They  smile  o'er  the  perished  pain, 
For  their  anguish  was  not  vain,  — 

For  thee,  O  Father,  we  died  ! 
And  we  did  not  die  in  vain. 

March  on,  your  last  brave  mile  ! 

Salute  him,  Star  and  Lace, 
Form  round  him,  rank  and  file, 

And  look  on  the  kind,  rough  face  ; 
But  the  quaint  and  homely  smile 

Has  a  glory  and  a  grace 
It  never  had  known  erewhile,  — 

Never,  in  time  and  space. 

Close  round  him,  hearts  of  pride  ! 
Press  near  him,  side  by  side,  — 

Our  Father  is  not  alone  ! 
For  the  Holy  Right  ye  died, 
And  Christ,  the  Crucified, 

Waits  to  welcome  his  own. 

HENRY  HOWARD  BROWNELL. 


PROMETHEUS   VINCTUS. 

[  Written  while  Jefferson  Davis  was  a  prisoner  in 
Fortress  Monroe,  where  he  was  confined  for  two  years 
after  the  downfall  of  the  Confederacy.} 

PROMETHEUS  on  the  cold  rock  bound, 

The  vulture  at  his  heart, 
In  you,  O  Southern  Chief,  has  found 

A  fitting  counterpart. 


306 


The  Titan  by  his  wondrous  skill 

Fashioned  a  man  from  clay  ; 
You  formed  a  nation  at  your  will, 

And  bent  it  to  your  sway. 

He  made  a  dull  insensate  thing, 

A  form  without  a  soul ; 
Your  spirit,  with  life's  stirring  spring. 

Electrified  the  whole. 

Like  him,  your  greatness  did  you  wrong, 

Your  virtue  was  your  bane  ; 
Each  soared  above  the  common  throng, 

Each  found  a  prison  chain ! 

Your  aims  alike  were  noble  ;  well 

Ye  battled,  till  at  length 
Each,  having  done  his  utmost,  fell — 

Dragged  down  by  Force  and  Strength ! 

Ye  fell,  but  gained  a  height  sublime, 

And  more  than  mortal  fame, 
Binding  upon  the  breast  of  Time 

An  ever  glorious  name. 

No  farther  may  the  semblance  go. 

O'erwhelmed  by  Zeus'  frown, 
Prometheus  with  supernal  woe 

In  agony  bowed  down : 

While  you,  O  gentle  sufferer,  feel, 
Though  bending  'neath  the  rod, 

A  holy  joy,  the  sign  and  seal 
Of  a  sustaining  God  ! 

Within  your  grated  prison  cell 

A  gracious  guest  abides, 
And  by  the  same  low-spoken  spell 

Which  stilled  the  raging  tides 


Of  fierce  Tiberias,  he  exerts 
A  spirit-soothing  calm, 
And  heals  the  sting  of  earthly  hurts 
With  heavenly  peace  and  balm. 

Around  you  in  unending  play 

The  bounding  billows  roar, 
And  white  with  crests  of  seething  spray 

Break  thundering  on  the  shore. 

These  ocean-surges  well  express 

The  love,  the  hopes,  the  care, 
Which  to  you  in  your  loneliness 

Your  faithful  people  bear. 

Chains  and  a  prison  cannot  wrest 

Your  empire  from  its  throne  ; 
You  find  in  every  Southern  breast 

A  kingdom  and  a  home  ! 

The  stately  land  you  strove  to  save, 

In  sable  robes  arrayed, 
Majestic  mourns  beside  the  grave 

Where  all  her  hopes  are  laid. 

But  though  she  weeps  her  cherished  dead 

With  sorrow  deep  and  true, 
No  tears  of  bitterness  are  shed 

Like  those  that  fall  for  you  ! 

You  hold  her  heart-strings  in  your  hand, 

And  every  blow  and  slur 
That  strikes  you  as  you  helpless  stand 

Falls  doubly  hard  on  her ! 

Heaven  help  us  all !     The  New  Year  dawns 

Again  with  gladsome  birth ; 
God  grant,  ere  many  smiling  morns 

Have  glorified  the  earth, 


ana 


That  one  may  break  amid  the  stars, 

Which,  by  His  blest  decree, 
Beaming  across  your  prison  bars, 

Shall  shine  upon  you  free ! 

FANNY  DOWNING. 


"GONE   FORWARD." 

[General  Robert  E.  Lee  died  October  12,  1870.     His  last 
words  were  :  "  Let  the  tent  be  struck .'"] 

YES,  "  Let  the  tent  be  struck":  Victorious  morning 
Through  every  crevice  flashes  in  a  day 

Magnificent  beyond  all  earth's  adorning : 

The  night  is  over ;  wherefore  should  he  stay  ? 

And  wherefore  should  our  voices  choke  to  say, 

"  The  General  has  gone  forward  !" 

Life's  foughten  field  not  once  beheld  surrender. 

But  with  superb  endurance,  present,  past, 
Our  pure  Commander,  lofty,  simple,  tender, 

Through  good,  through  ill,  held  his  high  purpose 

fast, 

Wearing  his  armor  spotless,  —till  at  last 
Death  gave  the  final  "  Forward  !" 

All  hearts  grew  sudden  palsied  :  Yet  what  said  he, 
Thus  summoned  ? — "  Let  the  tent  be  struck  !" — 

For  when 

Did  call  of  duty  fail  to  find  him  ready 
Nobly  to  do  his  work  in  sight  of  men, 
For  God's  and  for  his  country's  sake — and  then 
To  watch,  wait,  or  go  forward  ? 

We  will  not  weep, — we  dare  not !  —  Such  a  story 
As  his  large  life  writes  on  the  century's  years 

Should  crowd  our  bosoms  with  a  flush  of  glory, 
That  manhood's  type,  supremest  that  appears 
To-day,  he  shows  the  ages.     Nay,  no  tears 
Because  he  has  gone  forward  ! 


3D9 


Gone  forward  ?  —  Whither  ?—  Where  the  marshalled 

legions, 
Christ's   well-worn  soldiers,  from  their  conflicts 

cease,  — 
Where  Faith's  true  Red-Cross  Knights  repose  in 

regions 
Thick   studded   with   the   calm   white   tents    of 

peace,  — 

Thither,  right  joyful  to  accept  release, 
The  General  has  gone  forward  ! 

MARGARET  J.  PRESTON. 


VANQUISHED. 
[General  17.  S.  Grant,  died  July  23,  1885.] 

I. 

NOT  by  the  ball  or  brand 
Sped  by  a  mortal  hand, 
Not  by  the  lightning-stroke 
When  fiery  tempests  broke, — 
Not  mid  the  ranks  of  war 
Fell  the  great  Conqueror. 

II. 

Unmoved,  undismayed, 

In  the  crash  and  carnage  of  the  cannonade, — 
Eye  that  dimmed  not,  hand  that  failed  not, 
Brain  that  swerved  not,  heart  that  quailed  not, 
Steel  nerve,  iron  form, — 
The  dauntless  spirit  that  o'erruled  the  storm. 

III. 

While  the  Hero  peaceful  slept 
A  foeman  to  his  chamber  crept, 
Lightly  to  the  slumberer  came, 
Touched  his  brow  and  breathed  his  name : 


310 


O'er  the  stricken  form  there  passed 
Suddenly  an  icy  blast. 

IV. 

The  Hero  woke  :  rose  undismayed  : 
Saluted  Death — and  sheathed  his  blade. 

v. 

The  Conqueror  of  a  hundred  fields 
To  a  mightier  Conqueror  yields  ; 
No  mortal  foeman's  blow 
Laid  the  great  Soldier  low ; 
Victor  in  his  latest  breath — 
Vanquished  but  by  Death. 

FRANCIS  F.  BROWNE. 


SECOND  REVIEW  OF  THE  GRAND  ARMY. 

I  READ  last  night  of  the  Grand  Review 

In  Washington's  chief est  avenue — 
Two  Hundred  Thousand  men  in  blue, 

I  think  they  said  was  the  number, — 
Till  I  seemed  to  hear  their  trampling  feet, 
The  bugle  blast  and  the  drum's  quick  beat, 
The  clatter  of  hoofs  in  the  stony  street, 
The  cheers  of  people  who  came  to  greet, 
And  the  thousand  details  that  to  repeat 

Would  only  my  verse  encumber, — 
Till  I  fell  in  a  revery,  sad  and  sweet, 

And  then  to  a  fitful  slumber. 

When,  lo !  in  a  vision  I  seemed  to  stand 
In  the  lonely  Capitol.     On  each  hand 
Far  stretched  the  portico  ;  dim  and  grand 
Its  columns  ranged,  like  a  martial  band 
Of  sheeted  spectres  whom  some  command 
Had  called  to  a  last  reviewing. 


And  the  streets  of  the  city  were  white  and  bare, 
No  footfall  echoed  across  the  square ; 
But  out  of  the  misty  midnight  air 
I  heard  in  the  distance  a  trumpet  blare, 
And  the  wandering  night-winds  seemed  to  bear 
The  sound  of  a  far  tattooing. 

Then  I  held  my  breath  with  fear  and  dread ; 
For  into  the  square,  with  a  brazen  tread, 
There  rode  a  figure  whose  stately  head 

O'erlooked  the  review  that  morning, 
That  never  bowed  from  its  firm -set  seat 
When  the  living  column  passed  its  feet, 
Yet  now  rode  steadily  up  the  street 

To  the  phantom  bugle's  warning : 

Till  it  reached  the  Capitol  square,  and  wheeled. 
And  there  in  the  moonlight  stood  revealed 
A  well-known  form  that  in  state  and  field 

Had  led  our  patriot  sires  ; 
Whose  face  was  turned  to  the  sleeping  camp, 
Afar  through  the  river's  fog  and  damp, 
That  showed  no  flicker,  nor  waning  lamp. 

Nor  wasted  bivouac  fires. 

And  I  saw  a  phantom  army  come, 
With  never  a  sound  of  fife  or  drum, 
But  keeping  time  to  a  throbbing  hum 

Of  wailing  and  lamentation  : 
The  martyred  heroes  of  Malvern  Hill, 
Of  Gettysburg  and  Chancellorsville, 
The  men  whose  wasted  figures  fill 

The  patriot  graves  of  the  nation. 

And  there  came  the  nameless  dead, — the  men 
Who  perished  in  fever-swamp  and  fen, 
The  slowly-starved  of  the  prison-pen  ; 
And,  marching  beside  the  others, 
Came  the  dusky  martyrs  of  Pillow's  fight, 
With  limbs  enfranchised  and  bearing  bright : 


\ 


312 


I  thought  —  perhaps  'twas  the  pale  moonlight  — 
They  looked  as  white  as  their  brothers  ! 

And  so  all  night  marched  the  Nation's  dead, 
With  never  a  banner  above  them  spread, 
Nor  a  badge,  nor  a  motto  brandished  ; 
No  mark—  save  the  bare  uncovered  head 

Of  the  silent  bronze  Reviewer  ; 
With  never  an  arch  save  the  vaulted  sky  ; 
With  never  a  flower  save  those  that  lie 
On  the  distant  graves  —  for  love  could  buy 

No  gift  that  was  purer  or  truer. 

So  all  night  long  swept  the  strange  array  ; 
So  all  night  long,  till  the  morning  gray, 
I  watch  'd  for  one  who  had  passed  away, 

With  a  reverent  awe  and  wonder,  — 
Till  a  blue  cap  waved  in  the  lengthening  line, 
And  I  knew  that  one  who  was  kin  of  mine 
Had  come  ;  and  I  spake  —  and  lo  !  that  sign 

Awakened  me  from  my  slumber. 

BRET  HARTE. 


COMRADES   KNOWN  IN  MARCHES  MANY. 

COMRADES  known  in  marches  many, 
Comrades  tried  in  dangers  many, 
Comrades  bound  by  memories  many, 

Brothers  ever  let  us  be. 
Wounds  or  sickness  may  divide  us, 
Marching  orders  may  divide  us, 
But  whatever  fate  betide  us, 

Brothers  of  the  heart  are  we. 

Comrades  known  by  faith  the  clearest, 
Tried  when  death  was  near  and  nearest, 
Bound  we  are  by  ties  the  dearest, 
Brothers  evermore  to  be. 


313 


And,  if  spared,  and  growing  older, 
Shoulder  still  in  line  with  shoulder, 
And  with  hearts  no  thrill  the  colder, 
Brothers  ever  we  shall  be. 

By  communion  of  the  banner, — 
Crimson,  white,  and  starry  banner, — 
By  the  baptism  of  the  banner, 

Children  of  one  Church  are  we. 
Creed  nor  faction  can  divide  us, 
Race  nor  language  can  divide  us  ; 
Still,  whatever  fate  betide  us, 

Children  of  the  Flag  are  we. 

CHARLES  G.  HALPINE. 


IN  MEMORY. 

OLD  Greece  hath  her  Thermopylae, 

Brave  Switzerland  her  Tell, 
The  Scot  his  Wallace  heart,  and  we 

Heroic  souls  as  well. 
The  graves  of  glorious  Marathon 

Are  green  above  the  dead  ; 
And  we  have  royal  fields  whereon. 

The  trampled  grass  is  red. 

Oh,  not  alone  the  hoary  Past 

Spilled  precious  princely  blood ; 
Oh,  not  alone  its  sons  were  cast 

In  knightly  form  and  mood; 
Perennial  smells  of  sacrifice 

Make  sweet  our  sickened  air  ; 
And  troth,  as  leal  as  Sidney's,  lies 

Around  us  everywhere. 

Swords  tried  as  that  Excalibur 

Which  graced  King  Arthur's  thigh. 


314 


What  time  our  battle  instincts  stir, 

Flash  bare  beneath  the  sky. 
We  feel  the  rowels  of  Honor  prick 

As  keenly  as  did  he 
Who  sowed  his  savage  epoch  thick 

With  perfect  chivalry. 

Cceur-de-Leons  on  every  field, 

Sweet  saints  in  every  home, 
Through  whose  dear  helping  stands  revealed 

The  joy  of  martyrdom  ; 
Compassed  by  whose  assuring  loves, 

Our  comrades  dared  and  died 
As  blithely  as  a  bridegroom  moves 

To  meet  his  waiting  bride. 

Though  tears  be  salt,  and  wormwood  still 

Is  bitter  to  the  taste, 
God's  heart  is  tender,  and  He  will 

Let  no  life  fail  or  waste. 
O  mothers  of  our  Gracchi  !  when 

You  gave  your  jewels  up, 
A  continent  of  hopeless  men 

Grew  rich  in  boundless  hope. 

Renown  stands  mute  beside  the  graves 

With  which  the  land  is  scarred  ; 
Unheralded,  our  splendid  braves 

Went  forth  unto  the  Lord  : 
No  poet  hoards  their  humble  names 

In  his  immortal  scrolls, 
But  not  the  less  the  darkness  flames 

With  their  clear-shining  souls. 

Beneath  the  outward  havoc,  they 

The  inward  mercy  saw  ; 
High  intuitions  of  Duty  lay 

Upon  them,  strong  as  law  ; 
Athwart  the  bloody  horizon 

They  marked  God's  blazing  sword, 


315 


And  heard  His  dreadful  thunders  run 
When  but  the  cannon  roared. 

Shield-bearers  of  the  Sovran  Truth  ! 

We  count  your  costly  deeds 
Devoutly  as  a  maiden  doth 

Her  consecrated  beads. 
You  thrill  us  with  the  calms  which  flow 

In  Eucharistic  wine ; 
And  by  your  straight  tall  lives  we  know 

That  Life  is  still  divine. 

RICHARD  REALF. 


A  DIRGE. 

Low  lies  in  dust  the  honored  head, 
Cold  is  the  hand  that  held  the  sword ; 

Slowly  we  bear  them  to  the  dead, 
And  lay  them  down  without  a  word. 

What  is  there  to  be  said  or  done  ? 

They  are  departed,  we  remain  ; 
Their  race  is  run,  their  crowns  are  won, 

They  will  not  come  to  us  again. 

Cut  off  by  fate  before  their  prime 
Could  harvest  half  the  golden  years, 

All  they  could  leave  they  left  us — time, 
All  we  could  give  we  gave  them — tears. 

Would  they  were  here,  or  we  were  there, 
Or  both  together,  heart  to  heart. 

O  death  in  life,  we  cannot  bear 
To  be  so  near — and  so  apart  ! 

RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD. 


316 


LINES    FROM    "COMMEMORATION   ODE." 
[Recited  at  the  Harvard  Commemoration,  July  21,  1865.] 

WE  sit  here  in  the  Promised  Land 
That  flows  with  Freedom's  honey  and  milk  ; 
But  'twas  they  won  it,  sword  in  hand, 
Making  the  nettle  danger  soft  for  us  as  silk. 
We  welcome  back  our  bravest  and  our  best ; — 
Ah  me  !  not  all !  some  come  not  with  the  rest. 
Who  went  forth  brave  and  bright  as  any  here ! 
I  strive  to  mix  some  gladness  with  my  strain, 

But  the  sad  strings  complain, 

And  will  not  please  the  ear : 
I  sweep  them  for  a  paean,  but  they  wane 

Again  and  yet  again 
Into  a  dirge,  and  die  away  in  pain. 
In  these  brave  ranks  I  only  see  the  gaps, 
Thinking  of  dear  ones  whom  the  dumb  turf  wraps. 
Dark  to  the  triumph  which  they  died  to  gain  : 
Fitlier  may  others  greet  the  living, 
For  me  the  past  is  unforgiving ; 

I  with  uncovered  head 

Salute  the  sacred  dead, 

Who  went,  and  who  return  not.— Say  not  so ! 
'Tis  not  the  grapes  of  Canaan  that  repay, 
But  the  high  faith  that  failed  not  by  the  way ; 
Virtue  treads  paths  that  end  not  in  the  grave ; 
No  bar  of  endless  night  exiles  the  brave ; 

And  to  the  saner  mind 

We  rather  seem  the  dead  that  stayed  behind. 
Blow,  trumpets,  all  your  exultations  blow  ! 
For  never  shall  their  aureoled  presence  lack  : 
I  see  them  muster  in  a  gleaming  row, 
With  ever-youthful  brows  that  nobler  show ; 
We  find  in  our  dull  road  their  shining  track ; 

In  every  nobler  mood 
We  feel  the  orient  of  their  spirit  glow, 
Part  of  our  life's  unalterable  good, 
Of  all  our  saintlier  aspiration  ; 


They  come  transfigured  back, 
Secure  from  change  in  their  high-hearted  ways, 
Beautiful  evermore,  and  with  the  rays 
Of  morn  on  their  white  Shields  of  Expectation  ! 
***** 

Not  in  anger,  not  in  pnde, 

Pure  from  passion's  mixture  rude 

Ever  to  base  earth  allied, 

But  with  far-heard  gratitude, 

Still  with  heart  and  voice  renewed, 
To  heroes  living  and  dear  martyrs  dead, 
The  strain  should  close  that  consecrates  our  brave. 
Lift  the  heart  and  lift  the  head  ! 

Lofty  be  its  mood  and  grave, 

Not  without  a  martial  ring, 

Not  without  a  prouder  tread 

And  a  peal  of  exultation  : 

Little  right  has  he  to  sing 

Through  whose  heart  in  such  an  hour 

Beats  no  march  of  conscious  power, 

Sweeps  no  tumult  of  elation  ! 

'Tis  no  Man  we  celebrate, 

By  his  country's  victories  great, 
A  hero  half  and  half  the  whim  of  Fate, 

But  the  pith  and  marrow  of  a  Nation 

Drawing  force  from  all  her  men, 

Highest,  humblest,  weakest,  all, 

For  her  time  of  need,  and  then 

Pulsing  it  again  through  them, 
Till  the  basest  can  no  longer  cower, 
Feeling  his  soul  spring  up  divinely  tall, 
Touched  but  in  passing  by  her  mantle-hem. 
Come  back,  then,  noble  pride,  for  'tis  her  dower ! 

How  could  poet  ever  tower, 

If  his  passions,  hopes,  and  fears, 

If  his  triumphs  and  his  tears, 

Kept  not  measure  with  his  people? 
Boom,  cannon,  boom  to  all  the  winds  and  waves  I 


318 


Clash  out,  glad  bells,  from  every  rocking  steeple ! 
Banners,  advance  with  triumph,  bend  your  staves  ! 
And  from  every  mountain-peak 
Let  beacon-fire  to  answering  beacon  speak, 
Katahdin  tell  Monadnock,  Whiteface  he, 
And  so  leap  on  in  light  from  sea  to  sea, 
Till  the  glad  news  be  sent 
Across  a  kindling  continent, 

Making  earth  feel  more  firm  and  air  breathe  braver : 
"  Be  proud  !  for  she  is  saved,  and  all  have  helped  to 

save  her ! 

She  that  lifts  up  the  manhood  of  the  poor, 
She  of  the  open  soul  and  open  door, 
With  room  about  her  hearth  for  all  mankind ! 
The  fire  is  dreadful  in  her  eyes  no  more  ; 
From  her  bold  front  the  helm  she  doth  unbind, 
Sends  all  her  handmaid  armies  back  to  spin, 
And  bids  her  navies,  that  so  lately  hurled 
Their  crashing  battle,  hold  their  thunders  in, 
Swimming  like  birds  of  calm  along  the  unharm- 

ful  shore. 

No  challenge  sends  she  to  the  elder  world, 
That  looked  askance  and  hated  ;  a  light  scorn 
Plays  o'er  her  mouth,  as  round  her  mighty  knees 
She  calls  her  children  back,  and  waits  the  morn 
Of  nobler  day,  enthroned  between  her  subject  seas." 

Bow  down,  dear  Land,  for  thou  hast  found  release  ! 
Thy  God,  in  these  distempered  days, 
Hath  taught  thee  the  sure  wisdom  of  His  ways, 
And  through  thine  enemies  hath  wrought  thy  peace  ! 

Bow  down  in  prayer  and  praise ! 
No  poorest  in  thy  borders  but  may  now 
Lift  to  the  juster  skies  a  man's  enfranchised  brow. 
O  Beautiful !  my  Country !  ours  once  more ! 
Smoothing  thy  gold  of  war-dishevelled  hair 
O'er  such  sweet  brows  as  never  other  wore, 

And  letting  thy  set  lips, 

Freed  from  wrath's  pale  eclipse, 


The  rosy  edges  of  their  smile  lay  bare, 
What  words  divine  of  lover  or  of  poet 
Could  tell  our  love  and  make  thee  know  it, 
Among  the  Nations  bright  beyond  compare  ? 

What  were  our  lives  without  thee  ? 

What  all  our  lives  to  save  thee  ? 

We  reck  not  what  we  gave  thee ; 

We  will  not  dare  to  doubt  thee, 
But  ask  whatever  else,  and  we  will  dare  ! 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


HEROES  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

[From  an    Ode  on   the    Valor  and  Sufferings  of  Con 
federate  Soldiers.} 

FOUR  deadly  years  we  fought, 
Ringed  by  a  girdle  of  unfaltering  fire 
That  coiled  and  hissed  in  lessening  circles  nigher. 

Blood  dyed  the  Southern  wave  ; 
From  ocean  border  to  calm  inland  river, 
There  was  no  pause,  no  peace,  no  respite  ever. 

Blood  of  our  bravest  brave 
Drenched  in  a  scarlet  rain  the  western  lea, 
Swelled  the  hoarse  waters  of  the  Tennessee, 
Incarnadined  the  gulfs,  the  lakes,  the  rills, 

And  from  a  hundred  hills 
Steamed  in  a  mist  of  slaughter  to  the  skies, 
Shutting  all  hope  of  heaven  from  mortal  eyes. 
The  Beaufort  blooms  were  wither'd  on  the  stem  ; 

The  fair  Gulf  City  in  a  single  night 

Lost  her  imperial  diadem  ; 
And  wheresoe'er  men's  troubled  vision  roamed 
They  viewed  MIGHT  towering  o'er  the  humbled  crest 

Of  RIGHT ! 


320 


But  for  a  time,  but  for  a  time,  O  God  ! 
The  innate  forces  of  our  knightly  blood 
Rallied,  and  by  the  mount,  the  fen,  the  flood, 

Upraised  the  tottering  standards  of  our  race. 
O  grand  Virginia  !  though  thy  glittering  glaive 
Lies  sullied,  shattered  in  a  ruthless  grave, 

How  it  flashed  once  ! 

They  dug  their  trenches  deep 
(The  implacable   foe),  they  ranged   their  lines  of 

wrath  ; 
But  watchful  ever  on  the  imminent  path 

Thy  steel-clad  genius  stood  ; 

North,  South,  East,  West, — they  strove  to  pierce  thy 
shield : 

Thou  wouldst  not  yield  f 
Until — unconquered,  yea,  unconquered  still — 
Nature's  weakened  forces  answered  not  thy  will, 
And  gored  with  wound  on  wound, 
Thy  fainting  limbs  and  forehead  sought  the  ground  ; 
And  with  thee,  the  young  nation  fell,  a  pall 
Solemn  and  rayless,  covering  one  and  all ! 

God's  ways  are  marvellous ;  here  we  stand  to-day 

Discrown'd,  and  shorn  in  wildest  disarray, 

The  mock  of  earth  !  yet  never  shone  the  sun 

On  sterner  deeds,  or  nobler  victories  won. 

Not  in  the  field  alone  ;  ah,  come  with  me 

To  the  dim  bivouac  by  the  winter's  sea ; 

Mark  the  fair  sons  of  courtly  mothers  crouch 

O'er  flickering  fires  ;  but  gallant  still,  and  gay 
As  on  some  bright  parade.     Or  mark  the  couch 

In  reeking  hospitals,  whereon  is  laid 
The  latest  scion  of  a  line  perchance 
Whose    veins    were   royal.      Close    your    blurred 

romance, 

Blurred  by  the  dropping  of  a  maudlin  tear, 
And  watch  the  manhood  here  ; 

That  firm  but  delicate  countenance, 
Distorted  sometimes  by  an  awful  pang, 


321 


Borne  in  meek  patience.    When  the  trumpets  rang 
"  To  horse  f"  but  yester-morn,  that  ardent  boy 
Sprung  tc  his  charger,  thrilled  with  hope  and  joy 
To  the  very  finger-tips ;  and  now  he  lies, 
The  shadows  deepening  in  those  falcon  eyes, 

But  calm  and  undismayed 

As  if  the  Death  that  chills  him,  brow  and  breast, 
Were  some  fond  bride  who  whispered,  "  Let  us 
rest !" 

Enough  !  'tis  over  !  the  last  gleam  of  hope 
Hath  melted  from  our  mournful  horoscope — 

Of  all,  of  all  oereft ; 

Only  to  us  are  left 

Our  buried  heroes  and  their  matchless  deeds. 
These  cannot  pass ;  they  hold  the  vital  seeds 
Which  in  some  far,  untracked,  unvisioned  hour 
May  burst  to  vivid  bud  and  glorious  flower. 

Meanwhile,  upon  the  nation's  broken  heart 
Her  martyrs  sleep.     Oh,  dearer  far  to  her 
Than  if  each  son,  a  wreathed  conqueror, 

Rode  in  triumphant  state 

The  loftiest  crest  of  fate  ; 
Oh,  dearer  far,  because  outcast  and  low, 
She  yearns  above  them  in  her  awful  woe. 

PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE. 


HYMN   FOR   MEMORIAL-DAY. 
[Magnolia  Cemetery,  Charleston,  S.  C.'] 

SLEEP  sweetly  in  your  humble  graves — 
Sleep,  martyrs  of  a  fallen  cause  ! 

Though  yet  no  marble  column  craves 
The  pilgrim  here  to  pause, 

In  seeds  of  laurel  in  the  earth 
The  blossom  of  your  fame  is  blown. 


322 


And  somewhere,  waiting  for  its  birth, 
The  shaft  is  in  the  stone  ! 

Meanwhile,  behalf  the  tardy  years 

Which  keep  in  trust  your  storied  tombs, 

Behold  !  your  sisters  bring  their  tears 
And  these  memorial  blooms. 

Small  tributes  !  but  your  shades  will  smile 
More  proudly  on  these  wreaths  to-day 

Than  when  some  cannon-moulded  pile 
Shall  overlook  this  bay. 

Stoop,  angels,  hither  from  the  skies  ! 

There  is  no  holier  spot  of  ground 
Than  where  defeated  valor  lies 

By  mourning  beauty  crowned. 

HENRY  TIMROD. 


ODE  FOR  DECORATION-DAY. 

BRING  flowers  to  strew  again 

With  fragrant  purple  rain 

Of  lilacs,  and  of  roses  white  and  red, 

The  dwellings  of  our  dead,  our  glorious  dead ! 

Let  the  bells  ring  a  solemn  funeral  chime, 

And  wild  war-music  bring  anew  the  time 

When  they  who  sleep  beneath 

Were  full  of  vigorous  breath, 
And  in  their  lusty  manhood  sallied  forth, 

Holding  in  strong  right  hand 

The  fortunes  of  the  land, 

The  pride  and  power  and  safety  of  the  North ! 
It  seems  but  yesterday 
The  long  and  proud  array — 
But  yesterday  when  even  the  solid  rock 
Shook  as  with  earthquake  shock, — 
As  North  and  South,  like  two  huge  icebergs,  ground 


323 


Against  each  other  with  convulsive  bound, 
And  the  whole  world  stood  still 

To  view  the  mighty  war, 

And  hear  the  thundrous  roar, 
While  sheeted  lightnings  wrapped  each  plain  and  hill. 

Alas  !  how  few  came  back 

From  battle  and  from  wrack  ! 

Alas  !  how  many  lie 

Beneath  a  Southern  sky, 

Who  never  heard  the  fearful  fight  was  done, 

And  all  they  fought  for  won. 

Sweeter,  I  think,  their  sleep, 

More  peaceful  and  more  deep, 

Could  they  but  know  their  wounds  were  not  in  vain, 

Could  they  but  hear  the  grand  triumphal  strain, 

And  see  their  homes  unmarred  by  hostile  tread. 

Ah  !  let  us  trust  it  is  so  with  our  dead  — 

That  they  the  thrilling  joy  of  triumph  feel, 

And  in  that  joy  disdain  the  foeman's  steel. 

We  mourn  for  all,  but  each  doth  think  of  one 

More  precious  to  the  heart  than  aught  beside— 
Some  father,  brother,  husband,  or  some  son 

Who  came  not  back,  or  coining,  sank  and  died  : 

In  him  the  whole  sad  list  is  glorified  ! 
"  He  fell  'fore  Richmond,  in  the  seven  long  days 

When  battle  raged  from  morn  till  blood-dewed  eve, 
And  lies  there,"  one  pale  widowed  mourner  says, 

And  knows  not  most  to  triumph  or  to  grieve. 
"  My  boy  fell  at  Fair  Oaks,"  another  sighs; 
"  And  mine  at  Gettysburg  !"  his  neighbor  cries, 

And   that    great   name    each   sad-eyed   listener 

thrills. 

I  think  of  one  who  vanished  when  the  press 
Of  battle  surged  along  the  Wilderness, 

And  mourned  the  North  upon  her  thousand  hills. 

O  gallant  brothers  of  the  generous  South, 
Foes  for  a  day  and  brothers  for  all  time  ! 


324 


I  charge  you  by  the  memories  of  our  youth, 

By  Yorktown's  field  and  Montezuma's  clime 
Hold  our  dead  sacred — let  them  quietly  rest 
In  your  unnumbered  vales,  where  God  thought  best  ] 
Your  vines  and  flowers  learned  long  since  to  forgive, 
And  o'er  their  graves  a  'broidered  mantle  weave  ; 
Be  you  as  kind  as  they  are,  and  the  word 
Shall  reach  the  Northland  with  each  summer  bird, 
And  thoughts  as  sweet  as  summer  shall  awake 
Responsive  to  your  kindness,  and  shall  make 
Our  peace  the  peace  of  brothers  once  again, 
And  banish  utterly  the  days  of  pain. 

And  ye,  O  Northmen  I  be  ye  not  outdone 

In  generous  thought  and  deed. 
We  all  do  need  forgiveness,  every  one  ; 

And  they  that  give  shall  find  it  in  their  need. 
Spare  of  your  flowers  to  deck  the  stranger's  grave, 

Who  died  for  a  lost  cause  : 
A  soul  more  daring,  resolute,  and  brave 

Ne'er  won  a  world's  applause  I 
(A  brave  man's  hatred  pauses  at  the  tomb.) 
For  him  some  Southern  home  was  robed  in  gloom, 
Some  wife  or  mother  looked  with  longing  eyes 
Through  the  sad  days  and  nights  with   tears  and 

sighs,— 

Hope  slowly  hardening  into  gaunt  Despair. 
Then  let  your  foeman's  grave  remembrance  share  ; 
Pity  a  higher  charm  to  Valor  lends, 
And  in  the  realms  of  Sorrow  all  are  friends. 

Yes,   bring  fresh   flowers  and   strew  the   soldier's 
grave, 

Whether  he  proudly  lies 

Beneath  our  Northern  skies, 

Or  where  the  Southern  palms  their  branches  wave  I 
Let  the  bells  toll  and  wild  war-music  swell, 

And  for  one  day  the  thought  of  all  the  past — 

Of  all  those  memories  vast— 


325 


Come  back  and  haunt  us  with  its  mighty  spell ! 

Bring  flowers,  then,  once  again, 

And  strew  with  fragrant  rain 

Of  lilacs,  and  of  roses  white  and  red, 

The  dwellings  of  our  dead. 

HENRY  PETERSON. 


ODE  FOR  DECORATION-DAY. 

THEY  sleep  so  calm  and  stately. 
Each  in  his  graveyard  bed, 

It  scarcely  seems  that  lately 
They  trod  the  fields  blood-red, 
With  fearless  tread. 

They  marched  and  never  halted, 
They  scaled  the  parapet, 

The  triple  lines  assaulted, 
And  paid  without  regret 
The  final  debt. 

The  debt  of  slow  accruing 

A  guilty  nation  made, 
The  debt  of  evil-doing, 

Of  justice  long  delayed, — 
Twas  this  they  paid. 

On  fields  where  Strife  held  riot, 
And  Slaughter  fed  his  hounds, 

Where  came  no  sense  of  quiet, 
Nor  any  gentle  sounds, 

They  made  their  rounds. 

They  wrought  without  repining, 
Till,  weary  watches  o'er, 

They  passed  the  bounds  confining 
Our  green,  familiar  shore, 
Forevermore. 


325 


And  now  they  sleep  so  stately, 

Each  in  his  graveyard  bed, 
So  calmly  and  sedately 

They  rest,  that  once  I  said  : 
"  These  men  are  dead. 

"  They  know  not  what  sweet  duty 

We  come  each  year  to  pay, 
Nor  heed  the  blooms  of  beauty, 

The  garland  gifts  of  May, 
Strewn  here  to-day. 

"  The  night-time  and  the  day-time, 

The  rise  and  set  of  sun, 
The  winter  and  the  May-time, 

To  them  whose  work  is  done, 
Are  all  as  one." 

Then  o'er  mine  eyes  there  floated 

A  vision  of  the  Land 
Where  their  brave  souls,  promoted 

To  Heaven's  own  armies,  stand 
At  God's  right  hand. 

From  out  the  mighty  distance 

I  seemed  to  see  them  gaze 
Back  on  their  old  existence, 

Back  on  the  battle-blaze 
Of  war's  dread  days. 

"  The  flowers  shall  fade  and  perish," 

In  larger  faith  spake  I, 
"  But  these  dear  names  we  cherish 

Are  written  in  the  sky, 
And  cannot  die." 

THEODORE  P.  COOK. 


327 


THE  BLUE  AND  THE    GRAY. 

f  This  po>em  is  founded  upon  an  incidtnt  that  occurred  at 
Columbus,  Miss.,  on  Memorial-Day,  1867,  when  flowers 
were  strewn  upon  the  graves  of  Confederate  and  Federal 
soldiers  alike.] 

BY  the  flow  of  the  inland  river, 

Whence  the  fleets  of  iron  have  fled, 
Where  the  blades  of  the  grave-grass  quiver, 
Asleep  are  the  ranks  of  the  dead ; 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day ; 
Under  the  one,  the  Blue ; 
Under  the  other,  the  Gray. 

These,  in  the  robings  of  glory, 

Those,  in  the  gloom  of  defeat , 
All  with  the  battle-blood  gory, 
In  the  dusk  of  eternity  meet ; 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day ; 
Under  the  laurel,  the  Blue ; 
Under  the  willow,  the  Gray. 

From  the  silence  of  sorrowful  hours 

The  desolate  mourners  go, 
Lovingly  laden  with  flowers 

Alike  for  the  friend  and  the  foe ; 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day ; 
Under  the  roses,  the  Blue ; 
Under  the  lilies,  the  Gray 

So,  with  an  equal  splendor, 

The  morning  sun-rays  fall, 
With  a  touch  impartially  tender, 
On  the  blossoms  blooming  for  all; 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 
Waiting  the  judgment  day ; 


Broidered  with  gold,  the  Blue ; 
Mellowed  with  gold,  the  Gray. 

So,  when  the  summer  calleth, 
On  forest  and  field  of  grain, 
With  an  equal  murmur  falleth 
The  cooling  drip  of  the  rain ; 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day  ; 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Blue ; 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Gray. 

Sadly,  but  not  with  upbraiding 

The  generous  deed  was  done ; 
In  the  storm  of  the  years  that  are  fading, 
No  braver  battle  was  won  ; 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day ; 
Under  the  blossoms,  the  Blue  ; 
Under  the  garlands,  the  Gray. 

No  more  shall  the  war-cry  sever, 

Or  the  winding  rivers  be  red  ; 
They  banish  our  anger  forever, 

When  they  laurel  the  graves  of  our  dead. 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day  ; 
Love  and  tears  for  the  Blue  ; 
Tears  and  love  for  the  Gray. 

FRANCIS  MILES  FINCH. 


THE  TOURNAMENT. 
I. 

LISTS  all  white  and  blue  in  the  skies  ; 

And  the  people  hurried  amain 
To  the  Tournament  under  the  ladies'  eyes 

Where  jousted  Heart  and  Brain. 


329 


ii. 

Blow,  herald,  blow  !    There  entered  Heart, 

A  youth  in  crimson  and  gold. 
Blow,  herald,  blow  !    Brain  stood  apart, 

Steel-armored,  glittering,  cold. 

in. 

Heart's  palfrey  caracoled  gayly  round, 

Heart  tra-li-raed  merrily  ; 
But  Brain  sat  still,  with  never  a  sound — 

Full  cynical-calm  was  he. 

IV. 

Heart's  helmet-crest  bore  favors  three 
From  his  lady's  white  hand  caught ; 

Brain's  casque  was  bare  as  Fact — not  he 
Or  favor  gave  or  sought. 

v. 

Blow,  herald,  blow  !    Heart  shot  a  glance 

To  catch  his  lady's  eye  ; 
But  Brain  looked  straight  a-front,  his  lance 

To  aim  more  faithfully. 

VI. 

They  charged,  they  struck  ;  both  fell,  both  bled  ,• 

Brain  rose  again,  ungloved  ; 
Heart  fainting  smiled,  and  softly  said, 

"  My  love  to  my  Beloved !" 


Heart  and  Brain  !  no  more  be  twain  / 
Throb  and  think,  one  flesh  again  ! 
Lo  !  they  weep,  they  turn,  they  run  ; 
JLo  t  they  kiss  ;    Love,  thou  art  one! 

SIDNEY  LANIER. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


MAY 


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RECEfV 

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JAN     71930 


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